
Class _2_ _ 

Book " 1" ^ 

Copyright^? 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 



By HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

THE FOUNDATIONS OF A 
NATIONAL DRAMA 

containing lectures delivered to Harvard, Yale 
and Columbia Universities; at the Royal Insti- 
tution,. London; with other lectures, essays and 
papers on the Drama, and photogravure por- 
trait of the author. 

THE DIVINE GIFT 

A play in three acts, with dedication to Professor 

.Gilbert Murray, LL.D., Regius Professor of 

Greek at Oxford, and photogravure portrait of 

the author. 

THE LIE 

A play in four acts, as played by Miss Margaret 
Illington. 

OTHER PLAYS BY 
HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

The Silver King The Rogues Comedy 

Saints and Sinners The Physician 

The Middleman The Liars 

Judah The Manoeuvres of 

The Dancing Girl Jane 

The Crusaders Carnac Sahib 

The Tempter Mrs. Dane's Defence 

The Masqueraders Whitewashing Julia 

The Case of Rebel- Joseph Entangled 

lious Susan The Hypocrites 

The Triumph of the Dolly Reforming 

Philistines Herself 

Michael and His Mary Goes First 

Lost Angel 




HENRY ARTHUR JONES 



The Theatre of Ideas 

A BURLESQUE ALLEGORY 

AND 

THREE ONE-ACT PLAYS 

The Goal 
Her Tongue >-■ 
Grace Mary 



BY 

HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

Author of "The Liars," "The Divine Gift," "Foundations of 
a National Drama," etc. 



New York 

George H. Doran Company 



T £4?s>7 



• 1S i 



Copyright, 1914, 1915 
CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

Copyright, 1915 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



m -3 19/5 



©CI, A 393 823 



PREFACE 

The following pages contain essays in bur- 
lesque, serious drama, comedy and tragedy — that 
is to say in all the forms of dramatic art, with 
the exception of romantic drama. When any coun- 
try produces any one of these forms of drama, and 
clothes it in literature, it may claim to have a 
National Drama. Outside literature, a country 
may produce many deservedly successful plays 
which rightly amuse its populace ; but it can have 
no National Drama. It is only when the best of a 
country's modern plays pass into its literature, 
and when also they pass into the repertories of 
theatres with sustained traditions of great acting 
and authorship, as at the Theatre Francais — it is 
only then that a country has a National Drama ; 
or that its theatres are anything essentially dif- 
ferent from a conjurer's show, a candy store, a 
child's toy shop, or the anteroom to a prostitute's 
boudoir. 

Of the productions of the late Victorian stage, 
Gilbert's burlesques were, if not the greatest, yet 
certainly the most charming, the nearest to per- 
fection ; on the whole perhaps the most satisfying. 
But Gilbert never dared to smite the great vices 

5 



6 PREFACE 

and insincerities of his time. Or perhaps he was 
not aware that any existed. He would scarcely 
have been successful in the theatre if he had at- 
tacked them. So he merely scratched at small so- 
cial and political foibles and infirmities, and he 
remains a delightful dilettante in satire. A meas- 
ure of Gilbert's views and aims is given in the fact 
that he never allowed a word or an idea to stray 
into Savoy opera that could give his young lady of 
fifteen a hint that she was not a large wax doll. It 
is not a complete view of human life which repre- 
sents us as large wax dolls. If we wish to take 
Gilbert for a great satirist, a great burlesque 
writer, we must not mention Aristophanes, Rabe- 
lais, Swift, Butler of Hudibras, Butler of Erew- 
hon, or Lord Byron. 

I have long cherished three hopes for myself 
which I fear will never be realized — to stop a 
night at Dijon on my way southward and drink a 
bottle of old Burgundy at the Cloche Hotel — to 
get a week 's leisure to read Hooker 's ' ' Ecclesiasti- 
cal Polity" — and to write a burlesque for the 
English stage. 

What a jolly, riotous, instructive art burlesque 
might be on the English and American stages! 
What a roaring feast of healthy laughter it might 
provide for our citizens ! Comedy pricks us with 
a rapier through our correct, conventional every- 
day dress. Irony kisses us on the cheek while it 
slyly stabs us under the fifth rib. Burlesque 



PREFACE 7 

strips us bare to the skin, and then lays on with 
bludgeons and clubs and ninetails, while it romps 
and shouts .around us. Comedy can best deal 
with knaveries and follies and vices and shams as 
they are shown in individuals. Burlesque can 
best deal with knaveries and follies and vices and 
shams as they are shown in communities. 

How many falsities and solemn fooleries and 
hypocrisies rankly flourish in English and Ameri- 
can life, and call loudly for the reckless, bois- 
terous whacks and thumps that only burlesque 
can administer! 

Every discerning American who visited Eng- 
land in the ten years preceding the war must, 
I am sure, have been struck with the immense pos- 
sibilities that Englsh life offered to the burlesque 
writer. But in place of genuine burlesque we 
had the witless banalities and sniggering indecen- 
cies of musical comedy ; supported, as it was, by 
all that was powerful and fashionable in the 
press and in society. We may look that war will 
cleanse away many of our English falsities and 
fooleries and hypocrisies. But burlesque would 
have been much cheaper and more amusing — 
though perhaps not so effective or permanent. 

If I had followed my natural bent, I should 
have planned "The Theatre of Ideas" within a 
succinct framework, and written it as a play. But 
what dramatist to-day, with any knowledge of 
what burlesque might be, would foolishly produce 



8 PREFACE 

a burlesque of national and social follies and 
shams, with the certainty of thereby damaging his 
reputation with playgoers, and ruining his man- 
ager? I have therefore thrown "The Theatre of 
Ideas" into narrative form. 



It is a discouraging sign that neither on the 
English nor American stage is there any demand 
for one-act plays. These should be widely sup- 
ported, as a valuable school for young playwrights 
and young actors. "The Goal" was written in 
1897, and I had to wait seventeen years before I 
could get anything approaching a suitable repre- 
sentation. It was produced by Mr. Holbrook 
Blinn at the Princess Theatre, New York, in Oc- 
tober, 1914. It received very generous apprecia- 
tion from the New York press, and I hope to 
offer it again to American playgoers. 

The writing of l ' Her Tongue ' ' pleasantly occu- 
pied me during a leisure week in Spain a few 
years ago. It might perhaps fill a corner in a bill 
without any danger of boring the audience. No 
such fate could be hoped for "Grace Mary," 
which, however unlike it may be to a Shakespear- 
ean tragedy, would probably be equally successful 
in keeping people out of the theatre. 



PREFACE 



A dramatist is often reproached for producing 
plays that are obviously below the standard of his 
aspirations, and obviously below the level of his 
best work. This assumes that the dramatist is, 
like the novelist, always free to do his best work. 
There could not be a greater mistake. 

The dramatist is limited and curbed by a thou- 
sand conditions which are never suspected by the 
public. The drama will always remain a popular 
art. The dramatist who writes a play too far 
ahead of his public is like the statesman who 
makes a law too far ahead of the customs and 
morals of his people. The law is circumvented 
and disobeyed ; it can not be enforced, and thereby 
all law is brought into disrepute. 

The dramatist who writes plays too far ahead, 
or too far away from the taste and habits of 
thought of the general body of playgoers, finds 
the theatre empty, his manager impoverished, and 
his own reputation and authority diminished or 
lost. No sympathy should be given to dramatists, 
however lofty their aims, who will not study to 
please the general body of playgoers of their 
days. If a dramatist has something to say that 
the general body of playgoers will not accept, let 
him, according to his message, say it in the pul- 
pit, or on the platform, or in a pamphlet, or in a 



10 PREFACE 

novel. For instance, how much better employed 
many of our harum-scarum dramatists would be 
as presidents of social debating clubs. How much 
better employed many of our Pentonville omni- 
bus dramatists would be as photographers of 
slums, or of the yet more dreary abodes of our 
middle classes. There is nothing worthy of ad- 
miration in persuading a theatrical manager to 
lose a thousand pounds a week in producing some 
tract or message that could be easily printed for 
a few shillings. This does not imply that the 
drama should say nothing and mean nothing. But 
we must not place the crown of martyrdom on 
the head of a dramatist who has bored the pub- 
lic, ruined his manager, and deprived himself of 
his own vogue and authority with playgoers. 

Let us listen again to Goethe. He says, ' ' Shake- 
speare and Moliere wished above all things to 
make money by their theatres." Goethe is, of 
course, speaking of them as managers. They 
were like all other theatrical managers. But they 
wished to make money by offering their public the 
best plays that their public would accept. Here 
they were startlingly unlike some modern theatri- 
cal managers. There are horrible fortunes to be 
made in some kinds of theatrical management. 
So there are in keeping brothels. 

The question to be asked concerning a dram- 
atist is — ' ' Does he desire to give the public the best 
they will accept from him, or does he give them 



PREFACE 11 

the readiest filth or nonsense that most quickly 
pays?" He cannot always even give the public 
the best that they would accept from him. In sit- 
ting down to write a play, he must first ask him- 
self, ' ' Can I get a manager of repute to produce 
this, and in such a way and at such a theatre that 
it can be seen to advantage ? Can I get some lead- 
ing actor or actress to play this part for the bene- 
fit of the play as a whole? Can I get these 
other individual types of character played in 
such a way that they will appear to be something 
like the persons I have in my mind?" 

These and a hundred other questions the dram- 
atist has to ask himself before he decides upon the 
play he will write. A mistake in the casting of a 
secondary character may ruin a play, so narrow is 
the margin of success. But when once a play is 
started and advertised it can be played in an out- 
rageously insufficient or mistaken way and draw 
the crowds. 

These considerations show that it is rarely pos- 
sible for a dramatist to show his best work in the 
theatre under our present-day conditions. 

His best chance comes immediately after a great 
popular success which has given him vogue and 
authority with playgoers. He may then venture 
to say to the public, "Kind friends, won't you 
come up a step higher ? ' ' He may then venture to 
give them his best, though he may know that he 
courts deliberate failure. 



12 PREFACE 

This has been my practice. After the great 
popular success of the ' ' Silver King ' ' I produced 
"Saints and Sinners." It was the best I could 
do at that time. It was hooted on the first night 
and condemned by nearly all the London press. 
It narrowly escaped failure, and only obtained 
success through Matthew Arnold 's generous advo- 
cacy, and because of the discussion caused in re- 
ligious circles by its presentation of certain phases 
of English dissenting life. 

Since "Saints and Sinners" I have not been so 
fortunate. After the great popular success of 
"The Dancing Girl," I produced "The Cru- 
saders." I gave William Morris carte blanche for 
the scenery and furniture, and he advised me on 
the whole production. I engaged the best pos- 
sible cast, filling even the small parts with actors 
of great ability. It was hooted and booed, and 
again I met with the general condemnation of the 
London press. I lost four thousand pounds, and 
had to go out and collect the general public 
around me again. 

After obtaining another popular success, I 
wrote "The Tempter," which, in print before 
production, received the most lavish praise from 
so fine a literary critic as the late H. D. Traill. 
Again I met with failure, and a cold reception 
from the press, losing much money for the man- 
ager; and again I had to go out and collect my 
general public around me. 



PREFACE 13 

After one or two more popular successes, I 
wrote "Michael and His Lost Angel." It was 
savagely hooted and booed by a first-night au- 
dience at the leading London theatre. And again 
I met with the general condemnation of the press. 
Here I think the public would have saved me, for 
the business was going up by leaps and bounds. 
After the eighth performance the managers, 
without giving me notice, announced its sudden 
withdrawal on the following Saturday, the elev- 
enth performance. 

I was then fortunate enough to get from Sir 
Charles Wyndham and Miss Mary Moore a very 
finished performance of my comedies, and they 
were uniformly and universally successful. But 
whenever I have found leisure, I have employed 
myself in writing plays without any consideration 
of production in the theatre. Of such are "The 
Divine Gift ' ' and the pieces included in the pres- 
ent volume. Out of consideration for the man- 
ager's pocket, I have not offered "The Divine 
Gift" for production. 

I hope I may be forgiven for intruding this 
personal matter by way of excuse and explana- 
tion. In no case do I blame or arraign the pub- 
lic, who, in the theatre, will always remain my 
masters, and whose grateful and willing servant I 
shall always remain. Indeed, under happier aus- 
pices I think that most of the work I have here 
reviewed might stand a chance, or would have 



14 PREFACE 

stood a chance, of some degree of popular success. 
But that a dramatist may be successful with his 
best work he needs the vogue, and a theatre and 
company suited to his methods, and a public that 
can understand him at the first. Every dramatist 
who respects himself and his public should print 
his plays either before or after production. This 
will give playgoers a measure of their intrinsic 
value. 

Unfortunately, it will not confer immortality. 
I throw these little pieces into print, and dismiss 
them, feeling secure that they will soon reach their 
goal, that goal where we all swiftly tend — 
unsuccessful and successful playwrights alike; 
minor and major poets; demagogues and kings; 
even football stars and pretty vaudeville actresses 
who have their portraits in the papers arrive 
there at last — the limbo of unconsidered and in- 
considerable things. 

New York, January 5th, 1915. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface ........ 5 

The Theatre of Ideas: a Burlesque Allegory . 17 

The Goal: a Dramatic Fragment . . .101 

Her Tongue: a Comedy in One Act . . . 127 

Grace Mary: a Tragedy in the Cornish Dialect 

in One Act ....... 151 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, 

A Burlesque Allegory 

"We are justly more impatient of the stupidities and 
extravagances of our own party than of the stupidities 
and extravagances of our opponents; for whereas the 
stupidities and extravagances of our opponents often fur- 
ther our aims, the stupidities and extravagances of our 
own party are often our most serious hindrances. 

' ' The greatest enemies of a movement are its eccentrics 
and extremists." — Archibald Spofforth, Maxims of 
Policy. 

Not far from where I live a handsome, pre- 
tentious building has been gradually lifting its 
walls during the last ten or twelve years. Costly 
decorations have been spread over its surfaces, 
with curious mottoes inlaid in scrolls, and writ- 
ten apparently in some remote and foreign 
tongue, for the characters are not recognizable 
as belonging to any European language. The 
edifice has an air of self-conscious importance, 
almost of sublimity. A broad flight of marble 
steps leads up to an imposing portico. "Evi- 
dently a temple of some kind," has been my 
inward comment, as I have occasionally passed 

by. 

19 



20 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

One day I mingled with a number of persons 
who were reverently climbing the marble steps, 
and passed with them into the building. To my 
astonishment, I found myself in a bare and mean 
interior, which presented a startling contrast to 
the proud and lofty exterior. The place was 
dimly illuminated, except at moments when 
jets of light darted up, and then left a sense of 
bewilderment and darkness. The atmosphere was 
chilly, with occasional gusts of hot and cold wind. 
The chief pieces of furniture were a number of 
very modern statues on pedestals ; ten or twelve in 
prominent front places, considerably larger than 
life, and one small bust in the background. Just 
at the moment I did not distinguish whom the 
statutes were intended to represent, for my at- 
tention was caught by a fairly large crowd of 
eager spectators, above whose heads appeared a 
swaying figure whom they were enthusiastically 
applauding. 

I went up to the crowd and gently elbowed my 
way through them. When I was near enough, I 
saw that the swaying figure was valiantly astride 
a large wooden rocking horse. The animal had an 
elegant arched neck, abnormally distended nos- 
trils, and fixed menacing eyes. I have never seen 
a rocking horse with better points and propor- 
tions, or one that looked more like a real horse. 
Across its hind-quarters was painted in large gilt 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 21 

letters, PEGASUS. I could not see that he had 
any wings, but these may have been hidden under 
the embroidered blue and gold saddle cloth. The 
horse altogether was very nobly caparisoned, and 
had a silver-mounted bridle with tinkling bells. 
The rider, too, was gorgeously arrayed in a ca- 
valier dress; he had large gilt spurs and carried 
a drawn sword. His seat was firm and courage- 
ous ; he could not have borne himself more bravely 
if he had been riding a real horse. He accom- 
modated himself very gracefully to the animal's 
action, and every now and then, as he saw his 
chance, he plunged his sword into an invisible 
enemy's body, or with a well-aimed stroke, 
chopped off his head. He was evidently much in 
earnest, for the sweat poured down his face. So 
thoroughly was he animated by his cause, so truly 
did he possess the spirit of the latter-day social 
reformer, that the fact of his enemies being ab- 
sent miles away made no difference to him. He 
simply stabbed away. 

On the further side, over the spectators' heads, 
was a bandstand in which were ranged sixteen 
drummers and two trumpeters. The drums were 
all very large ones. Under the bandstand, and in 
front of the spectators, were seated a number of 
journalists, who were busily taking notes of the 
proceedings. A few of them were doing it as a 
matter of business ; but the greater part of them 
appeared to be genuinely impressed by the pro- 



22 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

ceedings, and some of them were enthusiastically 
sympathetic. 

The horse rolled magnificently backward and 
forward on its wooden stand, and when the rider 
executed some daring feat, the trumpets blew a 
fanfare, the drums boomed out their thunder, 
the journalists quickened their pencils, and the 
spectators burst into torrents of applause. 

' ' There 's horsemanship for you ! ' ' exclaimed a 
burly man at my elbow, in the intervals of shout- 
ing ' ' Bravo, ' ' and clapping his hands. 

"Yes, indeed !" I cordially assented. I am 
something of a horseman myself, but I have a 
natural aversion from all argument, and it pains 
me to destroy people's illusions. 

"And what a horse!" he enthusiastically con- 
tinued. 

' ' Yes, what a horse ! " I agreed. 

The spectators applauded more wildly than 
ever. Pegasus rocked backward and forward on 
his stand, attaining a larger segment of the circle 
at each roll; the rider spurred and hacked more 
fiercely. I have rarely seen greater enthusiasm. 

' ' Can you tell me the name of this building ? ' ' 
I asked of my burly neighbour. 

"This is the Theatre of Ideas," he replied. 
' ' You might have known that from the statues. ' ' 

I then perceived that the large brand-new stat- 
ues in the front were those of members of our 
most recent schools of publicists, politicians, 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 23 

essayists, dramatists, and novelists; but I could 
not recognize the small bust in the background. 
After a little peering, I discovered that it was a 
slightly damaged image of Shakespeare. He was 
placidly and blankly staring at the rider of Pe- 
gasus. 

"What is the gentleman on horseback hacking 
at ? " I asked of my neighbour. 

"He knows!" was the emphatic response. 
"Some part of our social system. What does it 
matter which ? There are plenty of social abuses 
to be reformed." 

I suppose my features must have conveyed some 
expression of doubt or bewilderment, for he se- 
verely inquired: "You don't deny that there are 
heaps of social abuses that loudly cry for re- 
form?" 

"No, no," I hastily responded. 

' ' Then what does it matter where we begin ? ' ' 

I saw that I was going to get the worst of the 
argument, so I edged a little away. He came 
fiercely up to me. 

' ' You don 't seem to be very partial to Ideas, ' ' 
he remarked. 

"Oh yes, I am," I protested. "I love them, 
but " 

I stopped nervously. 

"But what!" he threateningly demanded, with 
a tremendous emphasis on the "what." "Are 



24 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

there, or are there not, social abuses that cry out 
for instant reform?" 

The man was evidently a skilled debater. I 
dislike very much to be posed in this way by per- 
sons of an intelligence superior to my own, so I 
thought it prudent to change the subject. 

"He rides well," I said, appeasingly. 

"I should think he does ride well," was the 
answer. 

"And the horse has good points," I added. 

He grunted a kind of assent, and I moved 
further away. 

I discovered afterwards that neither my burly 
neighbour, nor any of the other spectators, had 
the least suspicion that the horse was not a real 
live horse. 

I thought I should like to go over the building 
and learn something of its aims and policy and 
methods. I therefore inquired for one of the di- 
rectors, whose name was printed in very large 
letters on several notices that were posted about 
the place. I was taken up to him and told him 
I should like to look round the place. He showed 
the most amiable readiness to meet my wishes, 
and said that, as he happened to be free, he would 
himself show me over the institution, and ex- 
plain its working. I thanked him very much. 

' ' What do you think of the architecture of our 
Theatre of Ideas?" was his first sentence. 

"It is very imposing on the outside," I said. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 25 

"Nobody could fail to be impressed by the fa- 
cade." 

"We have taken many of the features of the 
building from the Theatre of Ideas in Laputa," 
he said; "in fact, we have modelled ourselves 
very much on them in all our arrangements. ' ' 

"I suppose they are making great advances 
over there," I said. 

He lifted his eyes and made a gesture of help- 
less admiration, unable to express itself in words. 

"But we are rapidly catching them up," he 
remarked cheerfully. "Our range of subjects for 
discussion is already almost as wide as theirs, 
and our debates are quite as exhaustive and in- 
conclusive. Then, again, we have opened nego- 
tiations with the House of Commons to take over 
all its purely vocal functions, so as to leave it 
free to register the decrees of the Government 
without a single word being spoken by any mem- 
ber." 

I said I thought that this would advance the 
business of the nation. 

"Yes, indeed," he exclaimed, "they haven't 
got as far as that in Laputa." 

I asked what hopes he had of bringing the ne- 
gotiations with the House of Commons to a suc- 
cessful issue. 

"Well," he replied, "if our work here con- 
tinues to be as successful as it has been, I think 



26 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

it quite possible that in three years all the im- 
portant affairs of the nation will be voiced here." 

I had a little shiver. I do not know why — a 
mere respect for the proper use of nouns and 
verbs will scarcely account for it — but the mo- 
ment any writer or speaker begins to ''voice" 
this matter or the other, I get a little cold shiver. 
The fact is, I cannot help suspecting him — and 
it may be a very cruel and unjust suspicion on 
my part — but I cannot help suspecting him of 
being a member of the National Liberal Club. 

My eyes wandered round the building. 

' ' Have you any suggestions to make ? " he said. 

"No, no," I replied. "Those are magnificent 
statues. ' ' 

"Aren't they?" he cordially acquiesced. 
' ' Don 't you admire their expressions and poses ? ' ' 

I said that I did, and that I was profoundly im- 
pressed by the superbly flamboyant and confident 
attitude of the Polyfadistic Impossiblist in the 
centre. 

"It is his invariable attitude," said the Direc- 
tor. ' ' He never changes it for a single moment. ' ' 

I said that it must be a little trying and tiring 
sometimes. 

"Not to himself," the Director answered. 

I looked at them again. 

"Westminster Abbey has a remarkable collec- 
tion of statues," I said; "but it contains nothing 
approaching to these." 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 27 

He agreed with me and seemed to be pleased. 
My eyes wandered again round the building. 

"You were going to make some observation," 
he prompted. 

And seeing that I hesitated, he added encour- 
agingly: "Speak quite openly. Remember this 
is the Theatre of Ideas." 

"Well, of course they are a splendid group," 
I hazarded, "but don't you think the place needs 
a little more solid useful furniture ? ' ' 

He said he thought not, and that in his opinion 
the statue of the Polyfadistic Impossiblist alone 
was quite enough to furnish a Theatre of Ideas. 

' ' The place would look dismally empty without 
him," I remarked. 

At that moment a rocket fizzed up and all the 
lights suddenly jetted out in a blinding flash, and 
as suddenly went down again. All the spectators, 
like myself, gave a little startled jump. 

"What do you think of our system of light- 
ing?" he inquired. 

"I should have supposed that in a Theatre of 
Ideas," I replied, "you would have taken care to 
have a steady luminous glow. ' ' 

"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no !" he demurred. " We 
find it much more effective to keep the place 
dimly lighted, and then suddenly to blaze out in 
an unexpected flash, with a rocket or two.. It's 
far more dazzling to our spectators. It enables 
them to catch glimpses of more things than are 



28 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

dreamed of in Heaven and Earth. A constant 
equable radiance of light would scarcely be no- 
ticed, and would tend to show things as they 
really are. It would be in no way superior to 
ordinary sunlight." 

"That's quite true," I concurred. "I see now 
that your system of lighting is admirably suited 
to the Theatre of Ideas." 

The rider was still hacking backward and for- 
ward, and making thrusts at his enemy. 

"May I ask what that gentleman is hacking 
at?" I asked. 

' ' I 'm not quite sure, ' ' he answered ; " I believe 
it is either private property or marriage. I'll 
inquire. ' ' 

He went up to an attendant and questioned 
him. 

On his return he said: "I find it's vaccination 
we are attacking to-day. Can I give you any 
more information ? ' ' 

"Well, I do not wish to seem critical," I re- 
plied; "but isn't it a pity that you don't have 
real horses?" 

"Oh we do, occasionally," he said. "And we 
have one or two riders who can almost manage 
them. We started with the intention of having 
none but real horses, but we met with constant 
accidents and tumbles. The spectators got 
alarmed. Our difficulty was to find a supply of 
practised riders. We had guaranteed our sub- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 29 

scribers a constant exhibition of feats of daring 
horsemanship. We had to keep faith with them. 
You wouldn't have us disappoint the crowd of 
advanced and intelligent persons who have sup- 
ported us all through ? ' ' 

"No, indeed," I cordially responded. 

"So we have gradually substituted horses of 
the type you see here." 

' ' And haven 't your audiences any suspicion ? ' ' 
I asked, ' ' that they are not real horses ? ' ' 

"Very few of them can distinguish between 
the two types," he replied. "The great majority 
of our subscribers, especially our lady supporters, 
prefer the rocking horses, as they are less dan- 
gerous and troublesome animals to handle. 
Would you like to see where we manufacture 
them?" 

"I should, very much," was my reply. 

He took me into the workshop of the building, 
and showed me several horses in various stages of 
being manufactured. Three or four of them were 
finished, and were placed near the centre of the 
room. Several young horsemen were busily try- 
ing to throw a lasso over their heads, and when 
one of them succeeded, a murmur of admiration 
went round the workshop. 

On the floor, approaching completion, was a 
huge dappled-gray mare of the massive build 
and proportions of a cart-horse, and rather larger 
than life-size. 



30 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

"That seems to be a useful animal," I re- 
marked. 

"Yes, we expect him to be a great favourite 
with our audiences. ' ' 

1 ' Him ? " I exclaimed. " It 's a mare ! ' ' 

"We avoid all sex distinctions in the Theatre 
of Ideas. We find they are very objectionable 
and humiliating to the majority of our lady sub- 
scribers." 

I had a slight buzzing in my ears, and the 
building began to go round slowly. 

"She — a — he looks to be capable of great ex- 
ertion without fatigue," I observed. 

"We rarely find that our horses are fatigued," 
he said. "And we ride them constantly day and 
night. But unfortunately, nearly all our riders 
suffer from great shortness of breath after they 
have been riding a few months. ' ' 

We strolled round to the other side of the ani- 
mal. A workman was nailing on its mane with 
large, resplendent burnished nails. The Director 
told me that the heads of the nails were of solid 
gold, so determined were they to have great rich- 
ness of detail, and not to scamp anything. 
Another workman was engaged in painting 
"BUCEPH" on its — her — his hind-quarters. 

"I like the names you give your horses," I 
said, wishing to praise where praise was due. 

"Yes," he replied, "it lends a touch of poetry 
and imagination to the whole scheme. There's 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 31 

no reason that a Theatre of Ideas should be desti- 
tute of poetry and imagination. ' ' 

"None whatever," I heartily assented. 

As we came out of the workshop he proposed 
to show me over the library. I expressed my 
pleasure, and he led me across the building. We 
were stopped by one of the journalists, who came 
up to him with a bundle of notes that he had just 
written. I noticed that the journalist ducked as 
he passed the flamboyant figure of the Polyfadis- 
tic Impossiblist, and showed evident symptoms of 
terror. The Director explained that some time 
before, a group of journalists had been discuss- 
ing the incessantly rampant attitude of the figure, 
when it had suddenly tilted over and fallen upon 
them. Two of them had been in the hospital for 
paralysis ever since, and a third was being cared 
for in a home for the feeble-minded. 

We crossed the building and entered the li- 
brary, which was a large and bare room, and, 
like the main building, was very dimly lighted. 

To my surprise all the shelves were filled with 
books of a uniform height, bound in thin blue 
paper. 

"We have perhaps the most select, and at the 
same time the most useful and inspiring library 
in the world," said the Director. He took down 
a volume and handed it to me. It was a Parlia- 
mentary Blue Book, reporting an ingenious in- 
vention to carry urban drainage through the air 



82 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

by means of aeroplanes, thus avoiding the present 
pollution of the soil. 

"Are they all Parliamentary Blue Books?" I 
inquired, looking at the shelves. 

1 ' We admit nothing else, ' ' he replied. ' ' Where 
could you find so many Ideas packed in a form so 
convenient for our purpose?" 

He restored the book to its shelf, and said a 
few words of encouragement to a pale young 
student who was passionately absorbed in a large, 
thick blue volume. From their conversation I 
learned that the student was busy with the re- 
port of a Committee, who had been sitting to con- 
sider the abolition of the middle and upper 
classes, by forcing every one whose income ex- 
ceeded £400 a year to wear an anti-oxygenic 
respirator, which would painlessly stifle the 
wearer in about twenty-five minutes. 

The Director asked me what I thought of this 
proposal. I replied that it seemed to me alto- 
gether too mild a way of dealing with these male- 
factors; and that I feared that many of them 
would be crafty enough to escape by secreting 
oxygen, or by taking in air when nobody was 
looking. He said that they had foreseen this 
possibility, and that, to provide against it, the 
State would appoint a Special Commissioner to at- 
tend every individual member of the middle and 
upper classes, in order to see that the law was not 
evaded. This simple plan, while it would extir- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 33 

pate the noxious middle and upper classes, would 
also find easy remunerative occupation for the 
unemployed. With this end in view, it was pro- 
posed to fix the salary of each Special Commis- 
sioner at a thousand pounds a year. I suggested 
that it would be better to bleed each criminal to 
death by some slow and lingering process; this 
would more clearly show our abhorrence of the 
crime, and at the same time it would be more eco- 
nomical. He replied that we need not think of 
the economical aspect of the question, as the State 
could always be drawn upon for a great National 
Necessity like this. I agreed that so long as our 
end was attained, it scarcely mattered by what 
means we attained it; but that, for my part, I 
thought drastic and vindictive methods were ur- 
gently required, or we should still find that some- 
body would contrive to be better off than some- 
body else. The subject then dropped. 

' ' They appear to be terribly in earnest, ' ' I said, 
glancing at the rows of students seated along the 
tables, and all profoundly engaged in kindred 
tasks. 

"We are all terribly in earnest in the Theatre 
of Ideas," the Director answered. I observed 
that as soon as a student had mastered a page of 
his Blue Book he tore it off, and placed it care- 
fully in a basket beside him. At intervals an 
attendant came round, collected all the pages, and 



34 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

took them off at a side door. I asked the Director 
what was done with the pages so collected. 

"They are placed in a machine which tears 
them into pieces about an inch square," he re- 
plied. "These are all emptied into a large tub 
and mixed with equal quantities of bran and 
chaff. Sufficient water is added to make the vari- 
ous elements soluble. Carefully calculated doses 
of calomel and senna are stirred into the mass 
until they thoroughly permeate it. It is then 
packed in hermetically sealed tins and placed in 
a refrigerator, to prevent contamination by any 
outside germs. After a week in the refrigerator 
it is ready for consumption." 

' ' Consumption by whom ? " I asked. 

"By the entire staff of the institution, except 
the attendants, porters, and messengers," he re- 
plied. "After a number of experiments, we have 
found that it is the only diet which adequately 
stimulates and regulates our faculties, so as to 
render them fit to deal with the complicated ques- 
tions that hourly present themselves in the The- 
atre of Ideas." 

As we reentered the main hall I noticed with 
some alarm that the buzzing in my ears had in- 
creased, and that the building was quickening its 
rotatory movement. I had to steady myself 
against the door-post for a moment. 

"Ah! you have a curious sense of mental and 
spiritual exhilaration?" the Director cheerily re- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 35 

marked, noticing that my movements were be- 
coming a little uncertain. 

"I can't say that I have," I answered. "The 
fact is, I have a fearful buzzing in my ears. ' ' 

He seemed to be pleased at this. 

"Any feeling of vertigo?" he cordially in- 
quired. 

"Yes, I feel rather dizzy," I replied. He 
nodded approvingly. 

"Perhaps some slight premonition of nausea, 
as in the first stage of seasickness?" he suggested. 

"Yes — something like that," I confessed. 

He nodded still more approvingly. 

"That is what we call mental and spiritual 
exhilaration in the Theatre of Ideas," he said. 
"These are all welcome and encouraging signs 
that the place is exercising its benign influence 
on you. It casts the same spell upon nearly all 
who enter its portals. The mere name, 'Theatre 
of Ideas' has been known to cause a species of 
intellectual intoxication. How do you feel now ?" 

I said I should like to sit down. He conducted 
me to a seat against the side wall. 

"It's the inrush of Ideas upon an unprepared 
mind," he explained. 

I said I thought it must be. 

"It generally happens so upon the first visit. 
But come often enough, and you'll find that all 
your movements and perceptions will gradually 



36 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

adapt themselves to the conditions which we have 
established. ' ' 

Just then a man who had been earnestly watch- 
ing the swaying figure of Pegasus, suddenly tried 
to stand on his head. He was not very success- 
ful, but he persevered and made continued at- 
tempts. The spectators cheered and encouraged 
him, and another man, who had watched his ef- 
forts approvingly, made a vigorous dive at the 
floor, and attempted to balance himself upright 
as soon as his head touched the ground. In a 
few minutes a dozen men were frantically imi- 
tating the feat. So infectious is the enthusiasm 
for Ideas. None of them succeeded in keeping his 
legs in the air for longer than a bare second or 
so, until at length one of them, taking advantage 
of the angle formed by my seat and the wall 
against which it was backed, managed, after im- 
mense exertion, to prop himself there, with his 
feet swaying dangerously over my head. He sus- 
tained himself in that position for a considerable 
time, giving me an occasional involuntary kick, 
for which he apologized, explaining that it was 
impossible for a man standing on his head to 
exercise a steady control over his actions. This 
seemed to be so reasonable that I readily ac- 
cepted his apologies. I congratulated him upon 
having been able to carry his Idea into practice, 
whereas most of the possessors of Ideas are con- 
tent with merely talking or writing about them. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 37 

He was so elated by his success that he did not 
seem to feel the increasing pain and inconve- 
nience of his posture. Indeed, he invited me to 
take up a similar position on the other side of 
my seat, where a corresponding advantageous 
angle was formed by its junction with the wall. 
I declined, and asked him what was to be gained 
by standing on one's head? 

' ' It gives you an entirely new view of things, ' ' 
he said, between the gasps and breaks which his 
position enforced upon him. And with great dis- 
comfort, and at some risk of breaking his neck, 
he went on to argue that men who habitually 
walked upon their legs were bound to see every- 
thing in its ordinary conventional aspect, and to 
regulate their actions accordingly. This was un- 
answerable, and I did not attempt a reply. 

He raised himself a little on the palms of his 
hands, and shifted his head so as to get a better 
outlook upon the row of statues on the pedestals. 

"How do they appear to you from that point 
of view ? ' ' asked the Director, who had encourag- 
ingly and sympathetically watched his proceed- 
ings. 

"Almost sublime," he replied. "When you 
stand on your legs and look at them, they do not 
seem to be much more than human beings, but 
when you see them from this point of vantage 
they enlarge themselves till they — " 

He stopped from the mere physical difficulty 



38 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

of launching a hyperbole in that position. The 
Director screwed his head round and down, first 
to one side and then to another, and tried to get 
a view of the statues as they appeared to the man 
whose head was on the floor. 

"They certainly seem, to gain in importance 
when you look at them sideways," said the Di- 
rector. 

The man on the floor insisted that they gained 
even more in importance when you looked at 
them topsy-turvy, and begged the Director to 
have the statues rearranged on that formula. 
The Director promised to make some experiments 
with the statues, and to arrange them in different 
ways, until he discovered what angle of inclina- 
tion would best suit the idiosyncrasy of each 
member of the group. 

I have since learned that the Director was as 
good as his word, for last week I had an oppor- 
tunity of questioning a friend who had visited 
the Theatre of Ideas only the day before. From 
what he told me, it appeared that the Director 
had taken infinite trouble to rearrange the stat- 
ues in a manner that would show them to the 
best advantage, and that would also be most 
agreeable to the originals. A small committee 
had waited upon the Polyfadistic Impossiblist and 
had asked him how he would like his statue to be 
placed. He had replied that any man must be a 
myopic lunatic if he did not know that all statues 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 39 

looked best when they stood upside down, and 
that it was nothing less than a National disgrace 
and an insult to sculpture that all our public 
statues were still allowed to remain in an up- 
right position. He added that nothing could 
reconcile him to the exhibition of his statue with 
its head upward, except a general reversal of all 
other statues. If such a reversal took place, he 
should immediately change his views, and insist 
that his statue should be placed on its feet. He 
then expressed himself very strongly upon vivi- 
section, and the Committee withdrew, much im- 
pressed. 

All this my friend told me he had elicited from 
the same amiable Director who had previously 
shown me round. In reply to my further ques- 
tions, my friend said that upon his recent visit 
the Polyfadistic Impossiblist had, according to 
his wishes, been placed in an exactly vertical posi- 
tion with his feet upward ; and that this attitude 
insured him universal respect and admiration. 
The other statues were tentatively on their feet, 
but at various slants; one of them was not more 
than twenty-five degrees from the perpendicular. 
I inquired of my friend what had become of the 
small bust in the background. He could not re- 
member, but he thought it was still in an upright 
position. This was what I learned only a week 
ago. 

To return to my own visit to the Theatre of 



40 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

Ideas. After some misadventures, the man on 
his head balanced himself precariously against 
my seat and the wall. He claimed that this atti- 
tude gave him an astounding lucidity of mind, 
and revealed to him many things that escape the 
notice of those who all their lives are content to 
narrow their outlook, and walk about this won- 
derful world upon their feet. 

I asked him if he did not find the posture very 
painful and uncomfortable. He said that he did, 
but that martyrs to Ideas must expect to put up 
with hardships. He again pressed me to take up 
a similar position, but I refused very emphati- 
cally. He then called me a Trilobite. With that 
our conversation ended. A Trilobite, I afterward 
learned, is a crab-like creature which existed in 
the Paleozoic Period, and has been extinct since 
the close of the Carboniferous. 

Meantime the other anti-pedestrians had been 
endeavouring to sustain the same attitude, but 
without much success. They seemed, however, 
to be undaunted by failure, for every now and 
then I caught sight of a pair of boots waggling 
uncertainly for a moment between the shoulders 
of the spectators. A lady had her nose and cheek 
severely bruised by a sudden collision with the 
hob-nailed toe of one of these enthusiasts. The 
lady indignantly protested. The man looked up 
at her from the ground and tried to explain, but 
before he could get the words out, his other boot 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 41 

had violently descended and caught her a severe 
blow in the eye. She was very angry and left 
the building. So resentful are ordinary persons 
of the impact of Ideas ; so unwilling to endure the 
slightest inconvenience from their operation. 

And now an incident occurred of the greatest 
significance, as showing the penetrating quick- 
ness of woman 's intellect, and the ready superior- 
ity of her reasoning faculties. Whatever little 
doubt I may have previously had on this matter, 
I have had none since ; and I am glad to pay this 
full and handsome tribute of submission. A very- 
beautiful and quietly dressed woman with a well- 
bred air and a gentle, attractive mien, had been 
watching with great interest the efforts of the 
men to stand upon their heads. With startling 
eagerness, she suddenly tucked up her skirts to 
her knees, bent down her head, and thrust it be- 
tween her calves, as through a horse collar. This 
gave her a splendid opportunity of seeing things 
upside down, without the pain and trouble of 
standing upon her head. A very curious and un- 
expected result followed from her action. The 
moment she saw things upside down, she began 
to squeal out incoherently for her rights. 

I was watching her with extravagant admira- 
tion, when the Director touched me in a kindly 
way on the shoulder, and said that he had many 
more interesting things to show me. I rose cau- 
tiously, but found that the whole building was 



42 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

now revolving so quickly that it would be inad- 
visable for me to move. The buzzing in the ears 
was also increasing in an alarming way. 

' ' Come along, ' ' he said in a tone of gentle com- 
mand. "You mustn't leave without seeing our 
Pithecoidic Academy. ' ' 

I made a strong effort and followed him across 
the main hall. I was glad, however, to lean on 
the railings of an alley that ran along the further 
side of the building. It had much the same shape 
and proportions as a bowling alley; the only 
marked difference being that the space where the 
ninepins are placed was occupied by a solidly 
built brick wall, about ten feet high and quite 
four feet thick. A number of young men were 
partially stripping themselves at the lower end of 
the alley. As I halted to watch their proceedings 
the Director rejoined me. 

"These are our stalwarts," he said. "This is 
the most severe discipline our subscribers are 
called upon to undergo, and puts the greatest 
strain on their allegiance to Ideas." 

Each young man, when he had divested himself 
of his outer garments, appeared in a brilliant blue 
and white athletic costume. He then went up to a 
table, on which were lying a great number of in- 
dia-rubber skull caps, made to fit over the entire 
cranium, and to cover completely the eyes and 
ears. I handled some of these skull caps, and 
found that they were of varying thicknesses, from 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 43 

a mere skin to a hard two-inch coating of rubber. 
Each young stalwart fitted himself with a cap, 
and carefully pulled it over his eyes and ears, 
so that he was able to concentrate himself on his 
mission without the risk of distraction. He 
then stationed himself at the starting post, 
waved his arms blindly in the air, and burst into 
the triumphant notes of a fiery tune, which 
seemed to be a reminiscent compound of the 
"Marseillaise" and "Onward, Christian Sol- 
diers. ' ' After a pause at the end of the tune, he 
shouted "Victory" three times, tightened his 
muscles, bent his head forward, rushed up the 
alley at his fiercest speed, and butted furiously 
into the brick wall at the end. The result of this 
was generally to stun him for a considerable 
time, varying from a few minutes to half an 
hour, according to the thickness of his skull, the 
protection he received from his cap, and the prac- 
tice and skill with which he executed the man- 
oeuvre. As soon as he lay stunned upon the 
floor, two attendants came, picked him up, and 
carried him into an adjoining dressing-room, 
where they took off his skull cap, bathed his head, 
and administered restoratives. When he had 
sufficiently recovered, he walked down the alley 
to the cheers of the spectators; put on his skull 
cap, and again stationed himself at the starting 
post. After the song and shouts of "Victory," 
he once more addressed himself to the brick wall. 



44 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

"A very severe discipline," said the Director, 
as one young stalwart was carried into the dress- 
ing-room for the fifth time. 

"Yes, indeed," I assented. "What is the ob- 
ject of it?" 

The Director replied that many of these young 
men were destined to be politicians, and that this 
training fitted them to meet in an unconquer- 
able spirit the obstacles they were likely to en- 
counter in a political career. He said that none 
but the stoutest hearts and thickest skulls could 
survive it ; and that their prize pupil was a mem- 
ber of the present government, who often came 
and practised for an hour or two in their alley 
before introducing a bill into the House of Com- 
mons. He deplored, however, the waning cour- 
age of the present generation of stalwarts. Few 
of them, he said, took more than three turns at 
the brick wall in any one day ; while only one out 
of ten persevered through the entire course of 
six years; most of them, indeed, dropping out of 
the ranks at the end of two or three years. I 
said that a three years' course would satisfy all 
my own aspirations to distinguish myself in that 
way. 

There came up to us a very old man in black 
clothes, with silver hair that fell carelessly over 
a head that was so battered and pushed out of 
shape in all directions, that it looked like a gro- 
tesque mass of pulp, and was only recognizable 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 45 

as a head from the position it occupied on the top 
of his shoulders. The Director received him with 
the respect due to honourable old age. 

"May I take my usual turn?" the old gentle- 
man anxiously inquired, after greetings had been 
exchanged. 

1 ' By all means, ' ' replied the amiable Director ; 
and he arranged that the group of waiting young 
stalwarts should stand aside, and leave the alley 
free for the exploits of the old gentleman. With 
trembling hands the old man unstripped him- 
self, and soon appeared in a gorgeous blue and 
white gladiatorial dress, that showed strangely 
enough under the silver hair and the battered, mis- 
shapen cranium. The Director whispered me that 
the plucky old fellow's head had taken its pres- 
ent contour as the result of sixty-five years' 
practice at a brick wall, generally the one at the 
bottom of his back garden. But his own brick 
wall having a mere seven-inch thickness, they 
allowed him as a courtesy to fortify himself by 
taking an occasional turn at the more impreg- 
nable obstruction at the end of the alley. 

The old man sang the hymn in a quavering 
voice but with great spirit, and was shouting 
"Victory," when I was moved to a protest, and 
earnestly begged him to desist from knocking his 
head still further out of shape. The Director 
hushed me down, and taking me aside, expostu- 
lated with. me. 



46 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

"He doesn't know his head is out of shape," 
the Director whispered. "Better leave him in 
ignorance." 

"But," I protested, "he'll have a serious con- 
cussion. Look ! He isn 't putting on a skull cap. ' ' 

The Director again tried to quiet me by ex- 
plaining that the old gentleman was a very emi- 
nent theologian, and therefore whatever injuries 
he received, he was quite incapable of feeling 
them. He added that this happy imperviousness 
to injury, which all theologians possess, enables 
them to pursue this severe exercise with their 
skulls quite unprotected. He implored me to 
leave the old gentleman alone, and to accompany 
him to the Pithecoidic Academy, which he was 
sure would interest me. I learned afterward that 
the old gentleman had taken the highest degrees 
in Divinity in all the European universities, and 
had a reputation for scholarship that extended 
over three continents. 

As I cautiously followed the Director with an 
increasing unsteadiness of gait, I asked him for 
some information as to the nature and aims of 
this Pithecoidic Academy. He said that by the 
mere accidents of development and environment, 
the anthropoid apes had been deprived of their 
rightful status of humanity, with the attendant 
privilege of voting. Had it not been for this 
cruel caprice of Nature, the younger members of 
the foremost Simian families would now be en- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 47 

joying the advantages of Popular Education, and 
many of the elder members would be occupying 
responsible positions to which they were justly 
entitled, and for which they were manifestly 
qualified — such as leading popular processions, ' 
and representing their fellow creatures in Par- 
liament. They were trying, he informed me, in 
their Pithecoidic Academy to remedy the injustice 
and hardships which the Simian races had en- 
dured for countless generations, by giving the 
younger members of the various groups a sound 
knowledge of the higher mathematics. 

I asked him what results he expected to attain 
from this curriculum. He replied that they 
needed skilled carpenters to make their rocking- 
horses, and that the best preparation for the 
trade of a practical carpenter was a thorough 
acquaintance with the laws of Algebra. He con- 
fessed, however, that they had only been partially 
successful, for Nature again seemed to take a 
malicious delight in interposing mental barriers 
and limitations which prevented the young an- 
thropoids from mastering the Calculus of Equiva- 
lent Statements. I said that in this respect their 
proteges were in no wise behind the general run 
of educated mankind. I added that, in my opin- 
ion, the Calculus of Permutable Abstractions of- 
fered a better means of training a carpenter or 
handicraftsman than the Calculus of Equivalent 
Statements. He agreed that as their scholars 



48 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

could not understand the Calculus of Equivalent 
Statements, it would be wise to start them upon 
something more abstruse and difficult, so as to 
draw out their faculties. With this end in view, 
the Directorate had under consideration the Cal- 
culus of Unconditioned Possibilities. He asked 
my opinion of this Calculus as an instrument of 
Popular Education. I said that in the present 
temper and condition of the people it appeared to 
be even more suitable than the Calculus of Per- 
mutable Abstractions.* 

"Yes," he pursued, "I cannot imagine a bet- 
ter way to prepare our masses for the practical 
duties and business of life than to ground them 
thoroughly in the Calculus of Unconditioned Pos- 
sibilities." 

I agreed that it would fit them for every emer- 
gency and contingency. I further pointed out 
that it would enable them to deal with our con- 
stantly recurring political crises. 

"That is what we feel," he fervently ex- 
claimed. "And how much better it would be if 
every carpenter in the kingdom were able to cope 
with a political crisis, than that he should be able 
to make a beautiful chair, or a well-fitting 
drawer." 

I said that in this respect we had nothing to 
grumble at, for whereas it was getting increas- 

* See letters on Popular Education in the Educational 
Supplement of the London "Times," 6 Jan., 1914. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 49 

ingly difficult to find a table drawer that would 
slide easily into its place, the number of unskilled 
workmen who were capable of dealing with a 
political crisis was rapidly increasing, and would 
shortly be commensurate with the entire popu- 
lation. 

My remark seemed to stimulate him to action, 
for he immediately declared that they would set 
all their most backward pupils to work upon the 
Calculus of Unconditioned Possibilities the very 
next morning. 

I applauded this resolution, and said that it 
promised great results at the present time, when 
already the Calculus of Unconditioned Possi- 
bilities was the favorite text-book of some of our 
leading statesmen. It now only remained for 
the masses to yet further assist our legislators in 
drawing deductions from the same source, and 
to embody them in the statute book. This done, I 
said our country would be a very pleasant place 
for all of us to live in. 

As we finished this profitable conversation, we 
passed through the doors of the Pithecoidic 
Academy. Upon our entrance a great noise of 
chattering prevailed, which the Director hushed 
down with difficulty. My attention was caught 
by a young chimpanzee who was absorbed in the 
contents of his class-book. I asked what he was 
studying so eagerly, and was told that he was en- 
gaged upon the forty-seventh proposition of the 



50 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

First Book of Euclid, with a view to fitting him- 
self for carrying loads of bricks to the bricklayers 
of the new annex to the Theatre of Ideas. I hap- 
pened to look over his shoulders and discovered 
that he was really devouring a story of pirates in 
a six-penny magazine, which he had slipped be- 
tween the covers of his class-book. I pointed this 
out to the Director, who observed that they con- 
stantly met with similar discouragements. "For 
instance," he said, "it is a curious fact that a 
course of classical history always develops in a 
young anthropoid a taste for Mr. Tinfoil's nov- 
els; and any increase of members in our Latin 
and Greek classes instantly raises the circulation 
of 'Snipbits' at the bookstall outside." This 
staggered me a little, and I asked whether, for 
the present, it might not, after all, be advisable 
to adapt our system of education to the mental 
capacities, and to the future vocations of the 
scholars. He replied that if we trained our future 
builders and carpenters in such an antiquated 
fashion, we could expect nothing better from them 
than monstrous abortions like Salisbury and Lin- 
coln cathedrals, and the hideous wood carving of 
Grinling Gibbons. He further pointed out that 
the less their scholars learned and understood of 
their everyday work, the more highly developed 
became their sense of self-esteem. And he held 
that unless the sense of self-esteem was cultivated 
and allowed free play, these young anthropoids 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 51 

would never take their places as useful members 
of a properly organized society. 

At that moment it flashed across me that I had 
an appointment with the Collector of Rates, with 
whom I had a dispute as to the amount due from 
me for the purpose of National Education. I 
mentioned this to the Director, and asked him if 
he could tell me the hour, at the same time mak- 
ing it a pretext for leaving the Pithecoidic Acad- 
emy, which, after the momentary hush the Di- 
rector had secured on our entrance, had again 
become a wild babel of chatter and confusion. 

"The time? I'll tell you," he replied. "But 
before you go, I must take you into our Sanctuary 
of Perpetual Peace." 

I said I was overdue to keep my appointment 
with the Rate Collector. 

"But this is our greatest achievement — or will 
be when it is finished," he continued. "I really 
cannot let you leave the Theatre of Ideas without 
showing you our arrangements for securing Per- 
petual Peace all the world over. I hope you are 
an advocate of Universal Peace 1 ' ' 

I answered most emphatically that I was. I 
said that a few weeks before I had imprudently 
ventured upon a personal encounter with a pow- 
erful ruffian whom I had detected in the act of 
stealing my watch. The result was that I had re- 
ceived a ferocious mauling at his hands, and had 
lost my watch. The affair had made so deep an 



52 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

impression upon my mind, and upon my nose, 
that I had thereupon resolved to be a man of 
peace for the remainder of my life. 

"Come along then," he said, and helped my 
uncertain steps across the hall to a large open 
door over which was inscribed, "SANCTUARY 
OF PERPETUAL PEACE." 

On the way he confided to me that this wing of 
their institution was founded and supported by 
an anonymous donor, who up to the age of sev- 
enty had led a notorious and successful career 
as bandit and pirate on an international scale. 
Having amassed a huge fortune by this means, 
he had thereupon seen the error of his ways, and 
being stricken by conscience, he had determined 
to make some atonement. He had therefore de- 
voted one-tenth of all he possessed to the promo- 
tion of universal peace, and a further tenth to 
the succour of orphans whose parents had died 
from hydrophobia. The Director told me that 
this aged philanthropist had already lived to see 
the fulfilment of one half of his benevolent as- 
pirations; inasmuch as, owing to his princely 
gifts, it was now impossible to find throughout 
the length and breadth of Great Britain a single 
orphan of any victim to hydrophobia, who was 
not handsomely and indeed luxuriously provided 
for to the end of life. The Director added that 
if this venerable benefactor of his species could 
but live to see the inauguration of an era of uni- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 53 

versal peace and thus realize the other half of 
his aspirations, he would be content to die in 
the blessed thought that he had not lived in vain. 

"What is his present age?" I inquired. 

"Eighty-seven," the Director replied. 

I said that I devoutly hoped his wishes would 
be realized. I declared it would be monstrous 
for the nations of Europe to allow this aged 
philanthropist to die unsolaced by the conviction 
that his efforts had been crowned with success, 
and that war was henceforth impossible. 

With that we passed through the portals of 
the Sanctuary of Perpetual Peace. Our entry 
was unnoticed in the hubbub of high tongues and 
violent gestures that was proceeding at the other 
end of the room. The Director explained that at 
present their work in this department was only 
in its third year, and that constant disputes and 
confusions arose, owing to their difficulties in 
settling the principles upon which perpetual uni- 
versal peace was to be secured and maintained. 
Until these underlying principles were formu- 
lated and subscribed to, it was natural that there 
should be some transient discords between the 
Professors who were busily engaged in establish- 
ing them. 

"But," the Director continued, "when once 
our main principles are formulated, and the 
broad lines of our policy laid down, we have only 



54 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

to get all the politicians and the peoples to agree 
to them, and our task will be accomplished. ' ' 

I said that ought not to be difficult. 

"Meantime," the Director pursued in a tone 
of cheery confidence, ' ' a little wrangling, or even 
a few occasional blows among ourselves, is a 
very small matter, if only the great consumma- 
tion of Universal Perpetual Peace can be ob- 
tained. ' ' 

I concurred, and added that for my own part, 
I was a reasonable man, and would willingly 
compound the matter, and take a modest instal- 
ment on account — say an undertaking that would 
secure European peace for the next thirty years. 

The Director shook his head, and said that the 
Sanctuary of Perpetual Peace was endowed upon 
the most uncompromising basis; its venerable 
founder having seen so much of the misery and 
evils of bloodshed during his seventy years as 
bandit and pirate, that he was quite resolved to 
accept no solution of the question short of Per- 
petual Peace all the world over. To this end he 
had spared no expense in endowing the Institu- 
tion with Professorial Chairs that were filled by 
men of the highest attainments in Social Science 
and Philosophy. 

Our conversation had been carried on with 
great difficulty, for not only had the hubbub at 
the end of the room increased in violence, but all 
the time a shattering din came from a side room, 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 55 

as of clanging hammers beating on anvils in iron- 
works. Over the door of this side room was 
sculptured a dove bearing an olive branch, with 
the text underneath, "Wisdom is better than 
"Weapons of War." 

Amidst the uproar, the Director went on to give 
me some information about the learned Profes- 
sors who were the guiding spirits of the place. 
He kindly raised his voice to a shout, while I 
formed an ear-trumpet with one hand, and with 
the other clung to a table to steady myself; for 
all the while the building continued to roll round 
at increasing speed. In this position, after fre- 
quent misunderstandings, I managed to learn that 
the Sanctuary of Perpetual Peace was controlled 
by a small committee of three, Professor Poap, 
Professor Pugg, and Professor Meake. The Pro- 
fessor pointed out a thick-set, sallow complex- 
ioned man of fifty, with a massive forehead, 
scowling eyes, heavy jaws, and a baggy counte- 
nance as Professor Poap. 

Professor Poap was rolling out a succession of 
ungracious adjectives and epithets, which seemed 
to be directed at a fierce, dapper, red-haired, 
clean shaven little man, who was barking and 
gesticulating at him across the body of a beam- 
ing old fellow with rosy cheeks, and white woolly 
hair and whiskers. This latter I gathered was 
Professor Meake. He had the features and air 
of a benevolent old sheep, so much so, that when 



56 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

he opened his mouth, I quite expected him to 
bleat. 

Professor Meake faced alternately about to 
Professor Poap and to the voluble angry little 
man, and seemed to be soothing some quarrel be- 
tween them, so far as the clatter and confusion 
permitted me to judge. 

"That little man is Professor Pugg," the Di- 
rector bawled in my ear. ' ' P-u-u-u-g-g, " he 
shouted. 

' ' The one who is shaking his fist ? " I inquired 
in a rising shriek. 

' ' Y-e-e-e-s-s, " answered the Director, in a 
necessarily louder key. ' ' P-u-u-u-g-g. He has 
his moments of excitement — e-x-x-c-i-i-i-te- 
m-e-e-e-n-t when he is filled with righteous anger 
at the violence and wrong that are p-e-e-e-r-pe- 
tr-a-a-a-ted on the face of the earth." 

I tried, so far as my vocal powers were equal 
to the task, to assure the Director that I had 
every sympathy with Professor Pugg. 

At that moment Professor Pugg dealt a nimble 
blow which was intended for the obnoxious Poap, 
but which lighted inopportunely on the cheek of 
the intervening Meake. I endeavoured to express 
my sorrow that blows which are intended to re- 
dress the violence and wrong that are perpetrated 
upon the face of the earth so often light upon 
the cheeks of innocent persons. 

A crowd of auxiliary students, clerks and at- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 57 

tendants, who had gradually been gathering on 
either side according to the bias of their opinions, 
now joined in the fray until it became general at 
that end of the room. After much jostling and 
recrimination, Meake contrived to lead Pugg into 
a corner, where he gradually quieted him down; 
while the auxiliaries, after exchanging some rude 
remarks and a few vicious blows, dispersed and 
settled to their tasks, the Puggites on one side 
of the room and the Poapites on the other. The 
comparative quiet which now obtained permitted 
the Director to lower his voice, and to give me 
some further information, interrupted only by 
the incessant clang of the hammers in the side 
room. 

"These little skirmishes," the Director ex- 
plained, "will happen occasionally. We welcome 
them as showing the strength of conviction which 
animates our Professors. However regrettable 
in themselves, they are a happy augury for the 
ultimate realization of our Great Idea of Per- 
petual Peace all the world over. It is impossible 
that men who are so much in earnest can fail in 
the end to find a solution." 

I assented, and said that when men were so 
much in earnest as to punch each other's heads, 
a solution of the question was bound to follow 
sooner or later. 

"Our little difficulties," the Director went on, 
"arise from the fact that it is necessary to ap- 



58 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

proach a problem of this magnitude from all 
points of view. We therefore decided to select 
representatives of all schools of thought, so that 
the matter might be thoroughly thrashed out be- 
fore we decided upon our course of action. We 
were fortunate enough to secure men of such 
equal ability and renown, and at the same time 
of such varying outlook, as Professor Poap, Pro- 
fessor Pugg and Professor Meake." 

At that moment Pugg made an attempt to 
escape from the corner where Meake was holding 
him, but being restrained, contented himself with 
making a threatening gesture over Meake 's 
shoulder at Poap. Poap was standing in a sub- 
lime inflated attitude in the middle of the room, 
puffing out his sallow cheeks to their utmost ca- 
pacity, and then drawing them in, as alternate 
symbols of his own importance, and of the con- 
tempt he felt for Pugg. The hammering clatter 
in the next room never ceased, but I was able to 
hear what the Director said without any great 
strain. 

"There is much to be said for Pugg's funda- 
mental contention," the Director remarked. 

I asked what was Pugg's fundamental conten- 
tion. 

"On the other hand, Poap has made out an 
unanswerable case, ' ' the Director observed. 

Poap blew out an enormous volume of wind 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 59 

from his cheeks, as though dispersing Pugg in 
atoms through space. 

"An absolutely unanswerable, unassailable 
case," the Director mused. 

I asked for some details of Poap's absolutely 
unanswerable, unassailable case. 

"And yet Pugg has the facts on his side," the 
Director allowed. 

I said it was sad to reflect in how many human 
affairs all the reason was on one side and all the 
facts on the other. 

' ' Yes, Pugg excels in marshalling his facts, but 
Poap is supreme in marshalling his arguments," 
the Director summed up. 

I asked what Meake's position was, and 
whether he had any plans or views on the mat- 
ter; for his face was so amiably devoid of any 
expression or intention that it did not seem 
probable he could form any definite views upon 
any question whatever; or if he could, that his 
opinions could have any force or weight. 

"Meake's attitude," the Director replied, "is 
of immense value to our Cause, because of its 
adaptability to all persons, circumstances, devel- 
opments, and possibilities. Meake has enormous 
resiliency which makes him invulnerable. Meake 
is our standby, whatever happens. Meake is al- 
ways in harmony with the situation; always in 
touch with all men and all things. ' ' 

I scarcely knew what to reply to this, but I 



60 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

thought I should be right in saying that Meake 
was a useful and handy man to have about the 
place. 

"He is indeed," the Director cordially as- 
sented. "I'm not sure whether our Cause will 
not be finally won by Meake 's methods, rather 
than by Pugg's or Poap's. Pugg relies upon 
facts. Poap relies upon arguments. Meake 
avoids both facts and arguments. What is the 
result? At the outset Meake finds himself secure 
from all opposition, secure from all entangle- 
ments of word or deed. ' ' 

I was much taken with this. I said I was con- 
vinced that the shortest, perhaps the only way to 
establish Perpetual Peace all the world over, was 
to approach the subject by resolutely avoiding 
all facts and arguments that stand in the way of 
so desirable a consummation. 

"Still," the Director continued, "we must not 
altogether leave out of sight the present low 
mental and moral level of the masses of man- 
kind." 

I agreed that it might be advisable to keep 
this in mind before settling the question. 

"And having regard to the deplorable state of 
human affairs at the present moment, there is 
great warrant for Pugg's fundamental conten- 
tion." 

I again asked for some exposition of Pugg's 
fundamental contention. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 61 

"Pugg's fundamental contention is that War 
invariably arises from the discontent, greed, 
selfishness, pride, envy, folly, lust, blindness, am- 
bition, or cruelty of mankind." 

I said that Pugg had hit the nail on the head, 
drawing my simile from the ceaseless hammering 
in the next room. 

"War is therefore inevitable until any and 
every national exhibition of any one of these pas- 
sions is met and crushed by superior power." 

"Pugg must be a man of rare insight," I ex- 
claimed. 

"His courage is equal to his insight," the Di- 
rector affirmed with somewhat unnecessary em- 
phasis; for Pugg had escaped from Meake, and 
had again joined issue with Poap in what seemed 
likely to end in a display of superior power by 
one or the other of them. 

"Pugg has his moments of excitement," the 
Director repeated, and went on to develop Pugg 's 
scheme for securing Perpetual Peace. 

"In order that War may be instantly met by 
superior power, Pugg proposes to rally all the 
nations on the side of Peace, and to create a great 
international invincible armament to be held in 
readiness, night and day, at all naval and military 
points of vantage all the world over, so that it may 
instantly swoop down on War and crush it out the 
moment it raises its head. To put it briefly, 



62 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

Pugg's formula is, 'War upon War, at any and 
every moment, anywhere and everywhere.' ' 

I enthusiastically approved the general outline 
of Pugg's scheme, and asked for some details as 
to its working. The Director said that Pugg had 
gone minutely into all particulars in his lately 
published volume, "War Finally Vanished." 
All that was now necessary to insure the success 
of his plan was to get the different nations to 
agree to it. At the present moment they were 
busy upon other matters, but the Director did 
not doubt that as soon as their hands were free, 
they would immediately give in their adhesion 
to Pugg's proposals. 

I began to think that Pugg's bold and compre- 
hensive scheme for securing Perpetual Peace 
might after all prove more effectual than Meake's 
gentler methods. But before I committed myself, 
I thought I should like to know something of 
Poap's attitude. I therefore asked the Director 
for some enlightenment as to the leading prin- 
ciples on which Poap worked towards the blessed 
end which we were all determined to secure. 

"Poap takes his stand " the Director re- 
sumed, but stopped, for the altercation between 
Poap and Pugg had again become so violent that 
Meake could no longer keep them from blows. 
At last, with the aid of superior force from 
Poap's pupils, Meake persuasively dragged Pugg 
to the main door of the Sanctuary. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 63 

"Let us sit down quietly and talk it over," 
said Meake. "I'm sure there's no real difference 
of opinion between any of us. "We all agree as 
to the end. We only differ as to the means." 

With that he got Pugg to the door ; whereupon 
Pugg turned and shouted: "Down with War! 
Root it out! Exterminate it! Down with it, I 
say. ' ' 

"That's what we all say. War must cease. 
We all think alike about it," Meake softly 
bleated, as he tried to get Pugg away. 

' ' Down with War ! ' ' clamoured Pugg, standing 
at the door. "Away with it at all costs! Root 
it out! War upon War!" He shook his fist at 
Poap, and strode angrily into the Hall, followed 
by Meake. 

Poap stood in the middle of the room, and as 
Pugg went off, distended his cheeks to their ut- 
most capacity, and metaphorically blew Pugg in 
viewless particles into the vast inane. 

"That little bully," said Poap, advancing 
ominously upon us, "hasn't the brains of a tad- 
pole." 

He again loaded his cheeks, and with a tremen- 
dous explosion scattered Pugg into immensity. 

' ' I was just about to explain the cardinal prin- 
ciples of your crusade against War," said the 
Director, introducing me to Poap, with a pleasant 
smile. 

' ' My cardinal principles are the first axioms of 



64* THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

common sense," said Poap. "If you will care- 
fully study what I have written here you will 
see that for the future, War is impossible/' 

He produced fourteen bulky closely printed 
tracts and thrust them into my hands. I must own 
to a constitutional nervous horror of tracts, dat- 
ing from one summer evening in early life, when 
my sainted grandmother, now resting from her 
earthly labours of distributing them, forced me to 
accompany her, and to present one to each mem- 
ber of a neighbouring colony of violently abusive 
railway navvies. After some little involuntary 
hesitation, I accepted Poap's bundle of fourteen 
tracts. 

The title of each one of them was clearly 
printed on the top, as thus — "War — an anachron- 
ism," "War — an intolerable nuisance," "War — 
its profound immorality," "War— its outrageous 
absurdity," and so on; each tract dealing with a 
different aspect of the question. I was very much 
impressed with these titles, and as I glanced at 
them, I could not help expressing my surprise 
that the human race, having been almost con- 
stantly at war, both before and since it emerged 
from apehood, had never suspected in all these 
hundreds of thousands of years what an intol- 
erable nuisance, and what an outrageous absurd- 
ity it was. 

"I have made War for ever ridiculous," ex- 
claimed Poap. "For the future, no soldier will 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 65 

ever enlist under any flag without feeling that 
he is making an utter ass of himself. " 

I remarked that the distinguished eighteenth 
century dramatist, Mr. Puff, had designed a play 
to show the absurdity of housebreaking. I said 
it was a thousand pities the play had never been 
written, and that consequently burglars and 
thieves went about their business without the least 
suspicion of the ridiculous nature of their calling. 

"I have killed War from fourteen different 
standpoints," continued Poap with another tre- 
mendous spout. "Each one of my tracts, when 
properly understood, will make War impossible. 
Especially that one." 

He pointed to a fat tract which was uppermost 
in my hand and which was labelled, "War — an 
Economic Fallacy." 

I thought of my own sadly impoverished pri- 
vate exchequer, and said I had every reason to 
be grateful to the man who pointed out the pe- 
cuniary discomforts of going to war. 

"Discomforts!" Poap exploded. "Henceforth 
any nation that attempts to go to War will merely 
break down in a speedy and general financial 
fiasco." 

He went on to explain, with much pneumatic 
eloquence, that our present system of interna- 
tional credit would instantly strangle any future 
war by the simple automatic action of economic 
pressure. I was glad to hear this, and said it 



66 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

was to be regretted that the nations had only just 
begun to perceive this automatic economic pres- 
sure, and that meantime millions and millions of 
wretched peasants throughout Europe had starved 
without taking advantage of it. 

' ' Now, ' ' I suggested, ' ' if only each one of these 
luckless millions had taken the precaution, before 
dying, to write a short treatise on the economic 
aspects of War, and to point out the practical 
inconveniences of starving, we should doubtless 
have come to an earlier realization of this benefi- 
cent automatic economic pressure. However, I 
rejoice to hear that War is henceforth impossible 
from economic reasons." 

I added that so long as War was rendered im- 
possible, I didn 't care a jot by which of his four- 
teen tracts this desirable end was attained. 

"Nineteen tracts you mean. I have yet five 
aspects of the question to treat," said Poap, ex- 
pelling a series of invisible balloons from his dis- 
tended cheeks. ' ' I shall then have banished War 
from the face of the earth by nineteen several 
overpowering and irrefragable arguments." 

I congratulated him on leaving no loophole of 
excuse to any nation for going to War in the 
future. He then proposed to sketch the outlines 
of his five remaining prospective tracts, but the 
unbearable buzzing in my ears, and the clangour 
in the next room obliged me to say that I would 
make some future appointment with him. Mean- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 67 

time I would carefully study the fourteen tracts 
he had already given me. I put them in my 
pocket, and said they should occupy an honoured 
place on my library shelves. He then wished me 
a voluminous "Good morning," and mounting a 
kind of pulpit on his side of the room, proceeded 
to address a body of young Poapites on "The 
Preposterous Futility of Armaments." 

The Director admiringly watched him. 

"A born orator!" he exclaimed. 

I said I had already guessed as much from the 
immense quantity of wind he blew off. Poap con- 
tinued at great length, punctuating his sentences 
with outbursts of triumphant flatulency. 

"What an inexhaustible wealth of incontro- 
vertible argument!" the Director ejaculated. 

I agreed, but ventured to say that while I had 
every hope that Poap's incontrovertible argu- 
ments would convert the world, I should in the 
meantime like to see some practical measure taken 
to prevent the nations from going to War. 

"Ah!" said the Director with a seraphic smile, 
"I was waiting for you to say that. And now 
I '11 show you that we are not content with words 
in the Sanctuary of Perpetual Peace. We do not 
rest in Theory. We advance to Action. Come 
this way." 

He led me to the door of the room from whence 
came the continual din of hammers. I followed 
him inside and found myself in a kind of black- 



68 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

smith 's forge. A dozen men, stripped to the 
waist, were energetically beating upon anvils 
after the manner of a smith who pounds away at a 
horseshoe. Four other men were furiously work- 
ing at large bellows, while the furnaces spat and 
glowed with white heat, and the whole place was 
enveloped in a mist of smoke and steam. Large 
heaps of swords of all shapes and sizes were 
stacked upon the floor. It did not take me long to 
realize that the smiths were busily employed in 
beating the swords into ploughshares. I expressed 
my approbation. 

"You have no idea of the arduous nature of 
our task," the Director said. 

I replied that I could readily imagine that it 
must be an enormously difficult business, since 
mankind had been intermittently engaged in it 
since the days of the prophet Micah, and had ac- 
complished so little. 

"We are making good headway here," the Di- 
rector cheerfully claimed, as he handed me a 
ploughshare to examine. "We opened this forge 
less than three years ago, and we have already 
turned out five ploughshares." He pointed to 
four others which were lying prominently on a 
mahogany shelf close by. I could not honestly 
affirm that they were good workmanlike plough- 
shares, or that they would be of any use on a 
farm, but I applauded the benevolent intentions 
which had fashioned them. I said a word or two 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 69 

of cordial encouragement to the smiths who were 
sweating in this pacific enterprise, and then, as I 
remembered my appointment with the Eate Col- 
lector, I again begged the Director to be good 
enough to tell me what o'clock it was. 

"I hope you do not grudge the time you have 
spent in the ' Theatre of Ideas, ' "the Director re- 
plied, with an accent of reproach. 

I hastened to assure him that I had never spent 
so profitable a morning, and that I had never 
been so deeply impressed with the vast and pro- 
digious energies of the human mind. Indeed 
I was very much afraid I had overstepped my 
engagement. 

"Well, we'll see how the time is getting on," 
the Director amiably acquiesced. And he led the 
way into the main hall. 

I staggered after him, as quickly as the deafen- 
ing noises in my ear and the whirling move- 
ments of the building would permit. He waited 
for me just outside the Sanctuary, and closed its 
door after me. I asked him to be kind enough 
to let me lean against the wall while he ascer- 
tained the time. 

I had more than once noticed a very large 
clock over the bandstand ; but the dimness of the 
light had prevented me from seeing how the time 
was passing. The Director did not look up at the 
face of the clock, but went straight to an indi- 
cator, which was placed in a panel directly be- 



70 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

neath, and at a convenient level for consultation. 

By steadfastly peering at the clock, I saw that 
both hands were travelling over the dial at a tre- 
mendous pace; the hour hand covered the entire 
circle in about ninety seconds, and the minute 
hand moved so quickly that it was almost impos- 
sible to follow it. The Director returned from 
consulting the indicator. 

"It is now about five a. m., on the seventh of 
November, Anno Domini 2439," he said. 

"What?" I exclaimed. 

"It is now half -past ten on the same day," he 
replied. I was baffled, and asked for an explana- 
tion. 

"About two years ago," he informed me, "we 
discovered that in spite of all our efforts, the 
Theatre of Ideas was pervaded by a sense of bore- 
dom and depression. We endeavoured by all 
means in our power to combat this feeling, for the 
sake of the reputation of those who were praising 
it, not only as a centre of profound philosophy, 
but also as a means of passing a pleasant hour. 
When we built the Theatre of Ideas it never 
occurred to us that our audiences might be 
bored." 

"They ought not to have been," I said. "It 
was most ungrateful. ' ' 

"It was more than ungrateful," he sternly 
affirmed. "It was gross criminal ignorance and 
negligence. Still, they were bored. We shut our 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 71 

eyes to the fact as long as we could, but it be- 
came too apparent to be concealed any longer. 
The feeling of boredom and depression increased 
to such an alarming extent that we had to do 
something, or shut up the place altogether." 

"What steps did you take?" I asked, "to pre- 
vent such a national calamity?" 

"We instituted an exhaustive inquiry into the 
causes of Human Boredom," he replied. 

"That was going to the root of the matter," I 
said with cordial approbation. 

"Yes," he continued, "we examined endless 
witnesses; including the popular preachers of all 
denominations, our leading public speakers, the 
contributors to our comic papers, and all the 
secretaries of the various anti-associations ; we col- 
lected all available information and tested every 
theory and suggestion." 

"All these experts must have thrown a flood 
of light on the matter," I said. 

"They did," he assented. "Several times we 
thought we were on the right track. In fact as 
soon as the eminent paradoxist, Mr. Twaddledum, 
had given his evidence in a series of his brilliant 
double paradoxes, one of our members asked if 
we need pursue the inquiry any further. And 
he threatened to resign if we called the cele- 
brated triple-paradoxist, Mr. Twaddledee, who 
was waiting to come before us. The objecting 
member was strongly opposed by another mem- 



72 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

ber, who defended paradoxes on the ground that 
his aunt Maria and many of the supporters of the 
Theatre of Ideas still laughed at them, and 
thought them clever. And he pointed out how 
much the Theatre of Ideas had owed to the skilful 
manipulation of paradoxes in the past, and said 
that he did not think it honourable in us to throw 
them over — merely because people were finding 
them out to be tiresome and meaningless. We 
had a long and heated discussion, and finally it 
was carried by five votes to four that the per- 
petration of paradoxes was not the only source 
of human boredom ; but that there must be some 
deeper underlying universal cause. We sent 
down a courteous message to Mr. Twaddledee that 
we should not require his attendance. When 
quiet was restored, we settled ourselves with re- 
newed earnestness to discover the universal cause 
of boredom." 

"Was the inquiry a long one?" I asked. 

"We started it in March," he replied, "and 
sat for three afternoons every week. At the be- 
ginning of July, it was apparent that we had 
made but little progress. So we unanimously 
decided to give up our annual holiday, and devote 
the whole of the vacation to our search. ' ' 

I said there was evidently no sympathy with 
slackness in the Theatre of Ideas. 

"No, indeed," he replied. "Whatever we un- 
dertake, we do thoroughly." 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 73 

I applauded this spirit. 

"Because a thing is not worth doing," he con- 
tinued, "is no reason for not doing it well, and 
in a reverent spirit." 

I agreed with him, and mentioned golf and 
theological discussion. 

' ' I was President of the Inquiry, ' ' the Director 
went on. ' ' During the whole of the seven months 
that we sat, I rarely got to bed before two; and 
at the time of greatest pressure, in the middle 
of August, I did not change my clothes for ten 
days." 

I looked at him with unfeigned admiration, 
and asked him if his health had not suffered. He 
replied that although his bodily energies had been 
much dissipated, his whole moral character had 
been braced and elevated. 

"And," he added, "I was sustained through- 
out by the hope that we should be successful ; and 
that by discovering the universal cause of bore- 
dom, we might at the same time provide the 
human race with an infallible means of escape 
from it." 

"And were you successful?" I asked. 

"Beyond our wildest hopes," he replied en- 
thusiastically. "We not only discovered the 
cause of boredom in the Theatre of Ideas, but its 
absolute and universal cause everywhere and al- 
ways. Yes," he pursued, "it will never again 



74 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

be necessary for mankind to hold an inquiry on 
the subject." 

I said I was glad of this, and asked what con- 
clusion they had arrived at. He replied that the 
absolute and universal cause of boredom was that 
men had constructed their clocks and watches on 
a false and viciously reduced scale of chronom- 
etry, which made the respective portions of time 
— weeks, days, hours, minutes, seem to be in- 
tolerably long in passing. 

"You never feel bored when the hours are fly- 
ing so fast that you do not perceive their dura- 
tion," he pointed out. 

I readily assented to this. 

"As soon as we had made our discovery,' ' he 
went on, ' ' we set to work to make a practical use 
of it. In less than three weeks we had invented, 
designed, manufactured, and patented this two 
hundred horse-power chronometer which causes 
an hour to pass so quickly that you scarcely no- 
tice it. No boredom now in the Theatre of 
Ideas!" 

I suggested that there were other places of 
amusement where a clock of that description 
would afford great relief to the audiences. He 
said they had the matter under consideration. 
But for the present their first care must be to 
shield the Theatre of Ideas from becoming a place 
of boredom. 

"Now," said he, "if we were to sanction the 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 75 

use of our clock in other theatres, we should lose 
our relative advantage over them. However, as 
soon as we feel secure against the imputation of 
boredom in the public mind, we shall allow some 
other national institutions gradually to profit by 
our discovery. ' ' 

I asked him what institutions he thought were 
most in need of an installation. He said that 
clergymen of all denominations were complaining 
of the difficulty they had in attracting a congre- 
gation, and he thought that the various churches 
and chapels of the country had the first claim to 
benefit by their epoch-making discovery. 

I once more asked him if he could kindly tell 
me the present hour, as the Kate Collector was 
waiting for me to pay my half-yearly contribu- 
tion to Popular Education. He invited me to 
guess the time in order that I might realize the 
importance and significance of their invention. 
I replied that I had scarcely adjusted myself to 
the new computation, and I would feel obliged 
if he would tell me the exact hour. He went up 
to the indicator, and returning, said that it was 
two o'clock in the afternoon of the 8th of No- 
vember. 

"Are we still in the same year?" I inquired. 

"Oh yes," he replied, "we are still in Anno 
Domini 2439. We don't move so quickly as all 
that." 

The buzzing in my ears was becoming unendur- 



76 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

able, and the building was now whirling at such 
a terrific speed that only the inhabitants and 
frequenters of the place could keep their stand- 
ing. So accustomed, however, had they become 
to the revolution that they scarcely noticed it, 
but continued to move about with the greatest 
ease and freedom. Noticing my apparent dis- 
comfort, the Director asked me if I was not satis- 
fied with the rate of chronic acceleration which 
they had fixed. I replied that I was perfectly 
satisfied, and that I had never in my life known 
time to pass so quickly. 

"I'm glad of that," he said. "We consider 
that we have been most generous in our allow- 
ance. If after this any one feels bored in the 
Theatre of Ideas, we shall not afford him any 
further alleviation. We shall simply allow him 
to feel bored. We can make no further conces- 
sion to an infirmity which we expect all our loyal 
supporters to conquer or hide." 

He said this with great determination. 

While I was endeavoring to regain my equili- 
brium, I asked him upon what basis they had 
made their calculations as to the necessary and 
sufficient rate of acceleration which would meet 
the exigencies of the case. 

"The first factor we had to consider," he an- 
swered, "was the amount of boredom which had 
been generated, and what chronometrical aug- 
mentation would be necessary to dispel it. The 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 77 

second factor we had to consider was our ca- 
pacity for originating Ideas suitable to the era 
and date registered on our indicator. By com- 
bining these two factors, and subjecting them to 
our own methods of rhabdology, in our newly- 
tested rhabdological instruments, we arrived at 
the precise rhabdological result." 

I tried to look as if I knew something about 
rhabdology, but I am not sure that I succeeded. 

"And that rhabdological result nothing will 
induce us to alter, while rhabdology remains one 
of the exact sciences," he affirmed, with what I 
thought was unnecessary emphasis, for I had 
shown no disposition to argue about rhabdology. 
However, I thought I should be safe in heartily 
approving his determination, and I did so ; at the 
same time taking the first chance to divert the 
conversation from rhabdology, as I felt myself 
on very insecure ground. I therefore congratu- 
lated him upon their evident success in starting 
and working Ideas that were eminently suited to 
the date registered on the indicator. He seemed 
to grow a little despondent. 

"We have great difficulty in keeping pace with 
the times," he said. "Even with all our un- 
rivalled devices for stimulating intellectual ac- 
tivity and originality, I often ask myself, 'Are 
our Ideas genuinely up to date ? ' " 

I did my best to relieve his anxiety on this 
score, and said that, on the contrary, so far as 



78 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

I could judge, all their Ideas seemed, if anything, 
somewhat too advanced even for the twenty-fifth 
century. He said this was a fault which would 
soon remedy itself, as it would not take them 
long to reach the twenty-sixth. 

I had been steadying myself by clutching at 
the pedestal of the Polyfadistic Impossiblist. The 
Director warned me that it was so uncertain upon 
its foundations that it might fall upon me, as it 
had fallen upon the unlucky journalists. He 
would not answer for anything that it might or 
might not do ; I hastily let go my hold, and made 
for the main door of exit. But the incessant whirl 
of the building would have tripped me up, if the 
Director had not come to my aid and kept me on 
my feet. I asked him if he would kindly assist 
me across the hall ; he courteously offered me his 
arm, and supported me to the vestibule. 

We passed the crowd of spectators. They were 
still loudly applauding. Pegasus was still rock- 
ing; the rider was still stabbing away. I ex- 
pressed some surprise at his continued efforts. 

"Ah!" he said with a deep sigh, "social abuses 
are so persistent, so hard to kill. If it weren't 
for the applause of our kind friends, and the nice 
notices we get in the newspapers, it would hardly 
be worth while to attack them. ' ' 

We passed through the outer doors, and stood 
on the top of the handsome flight of broad marble 
stairs that led up to the Theatre of Ideas. By 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 79 

this time, I had a little regained my balance, but 
I felt indisposed to risk an immediate descent 
into the roadway. For I observed that all the 
spectators who left the building had much ado 
to prevent themselves from tumbling as soon as 
they stepped on to the pavement. They had to 
descend very warily, balancing themselves care- 
fully on each step; but in spite of these precau- 
tions they could not always avoid an accident. 
Most of them were regular frequenters and sub- 
scribers, and were well aware of the perilous 
nature of the exit. The Director had a nod or a 
kindly word, or a shake of the hands for each of 
them. They all manifested or expressed their 
delight at the performances ; each face had a look 
of intense self-satisfaction. A young lady of 
about sixteen came up and shook hands warmly 
with the Director. She overwhelmed him with 
thanks and congratulations. 

''It's a fresh revelation to me every time I 
come," she declared. "I see everything! I feel 
everything! I know everything! I comprehend 
everything! I am everything!" 

The moment she reached the pavement she fell 
flat on her face with her nose on the curbstone, 
and her hands spread out into the roadway. A 
passing dustman picked her up, and carefully 
wiped away the mud from the large panache she 
wore on her hat. 

"I have acquired a new sense to-day," said a 



80 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

dreamy unkempt young man with an aggressive 
forehead, and a small receding chin. "Morality 
and Space are identical and commensurate. 
There are eleven dimensions in each." 

He looked at me as if he expected some cor- 
roboration. I said that Kant had speculated 
upon the same subjects without reaching so large 
and definite a conclusion. 

He said that Kant had never formed a true 
conception of Space or Morality, and was a sorry 
blunderer through such problems. He went down 
the steps with what seemed to me an undue con- 
fidence. As his foot touched the ground beneath, 
he slipped up as if he had trodden upon orange 
peel, regained his balance, plunged forward, 
turned round once or twice, and rolled over into 
the road. A brutal grocer's boy made jeering re- 
marks at his expense. 

A very amiable looking old gentleman with 
gold-rimmed spectacles came out of the building 
and shook hands with the Director. 

"Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful! I 
shall write to my bankers to double my subscrip- 
tion." 

He went down the steps with some care, but 
with the alacrity of one practised in the descent. 

"That is our oldest and most valued sub- 
scriber," the Director informed me. "He never 
misses a performance." 

The old and valued subscriber managed a sue- 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 81 

cessful negotiation with the pavement; but he 
had not gone two steps before he became violently 
unsteady, waved his arms about, and finally sat 
down in a large puddle in the middle of the road, 
while his new shiny hat rolled under the wheel 
of a van, and unbared a large expanse of shiny 
cranium, perfectly bald. 

So far was he from being discomfited at this, 
or disposed to regard it as a misfortune, that he 
made no attempt to rise, but looked around cheer- 
fully, and waved his hand gaily at the Director, 
with the air of one who had triumphantly accom- 
plished an acrobatic feat. The Director waved 
his hand in return, and smiled and nodded sym- 
pathetically. 

"That is what we pride ourselves upon most 
of all," said the Director. 

"What?" I asked. 

"The practical and ennobling results of our 
teaching upon character. We inspire our follow- 
ers with a sublime courage that not merely enables 
them bravely to face the troubles and misfortunes 
of everyday life, but actually to rejoice in them. 
Nobody but a constant subscriber to the Theatre 
of Ideas could have met disaster in the spirit of 
my friend there in the puddle." 

And he gave the old gentleman another cheery 
nod, to which the other responded with a beaming 
smile, and another triumphant wave of the hand. 

"It's a splendid moral discipline," I said. 



82 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

And I felt inwardly rebuked, for I remembered 
that only the day before I had used bad language 
as I picked myself up from an ill-judged exit 
from a motor bus. 

The Director asked me if he could give me any 
further information. I said that I had received 
as much as I could easily assimilate for the time. 
I added, however, that I should be glad to know 
why the man on his head had called me a Trilo- 
bite. 

' ' When were you born ? ' ' asked the Director. 

''In 1851," I replied. 

' ' Then you are a Trilobite, ' ' he answered. 

' ' Are you quite sure I 'm a Trilobite ? " I gently 
inquired. 

' ' You are not merely a Trilobite, ' ' he declared ; 
"you are an ancient and confirmed Trilobite of 
the most Trilobitish order of Trilobites. ' ' 

I stood aghast at this, and asked for an ex- 
planation. He replied that the Theatre of Ideas, 
in the few years of its existence, had accomplished 
a transformation of the human mind and spirit 
as complete as that which had been slowly 
wrought in the strata of the earth during four 
geological epochs; and that any one who had 
been bred in the mental and spiritual atmosphere 
of the previous generation was necessarily nothing 
but a fossil of a very low type. I suppose my 
features must have expressed some discontent at 
being thus classified, for dropping his usually 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 83 

courteous manner, he asked with some asperity, 
"If you are a Trilobite, what's the use of deny- 
ing it?" 

I made haste to propitiate him by saying, ' ' Of 
course I am a Trilobite, it's not the least use my 
denying it." 

I then thanked him heartily for all the trouble 
he had taken, and he wished me ' ' Good-day. ' ' 

' ' Come and see us again ! " he added cordially, 
' ' come often. ' ' 

I promised that I would, and wished the insti- 
tution every possible success. 

"A very advanced thinker," I said to myself, 
as I began a very leisurely, careful descent ; being 
resolved to avoid disaster at the bottom if I pos- 
sibly could. The outside porter noticed my ex- 
treme caution and very obligingly came to my as- 
sistance. He was a stout man, with a jovial red 
face, and a twinkle in his eye. 

"What about these Ideas?" I questioned him. 

"Well, what about 'em?" he replied, with a 
broadish grin. 

"Well, what about them?" I pursued. 

He winked at me and gave me a nudge in the 
ribs with the arm which he was lending to sup- 
port me. I pointed out to him that this was no 
answer to my question, and pressed him again 
for his views. He adroitly evaded the point by 
a series of generalizations and a short anecdote. 

"Well sir," he said, "some people think they 



84 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

know all about everything better than everybody 
else. And other folks think that such folks are 
mistaken. I won't say which party is right. All 
the same I may have my opinion about it. I may 
have my opinion about lots of things. And I may 
be right. But on the other hand, I may be 
wrong. One thing is certain; if some people 
have one opinion about a thing, and other folks 
have a clean contrary opinion, they can't both 
be right. But I wouldn 't go so far as to say that 
both of 'em mightn't be wrong. But Lor' bless 
you sir, when it comes to opinions, it's like choos- 
ing a new necktie — there's so many different 
patterns and colours and shapes, you may waste a 
whole day and then pick out the wrong one. 
Now I 'm a sensible man, and I 've got one opinion 
on a certain subject; and you're a sensible man, 
and you've got another opinion. And I bring in 
another sensible man, and he says that I 'm right. 
And you bring in another sensible man, and he 
says that you're right. And we keep on bringing 
in sensible men. What happens then? If we 
don't take care, we get to arguing about it, same 
as Joe Tubbs and Bob Poulter did the other day, 
when we went to have a bite of dinner together. 
While we was waiting for the sausages and 
mashed, Bob and Joe got to arguing about the 
best way to feed bull-pups. Well, I've got my 
own opinion about feeding bull-pups, but I said 
nothing. They kept on arguing, and last of all, 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 85 

when they'd nearly come to blows, Joe turns 
round to me and he says, 'Solomon Brown, what's 
the best grub for bull-pups?' he says. ' 'Struth 
Sol, you've wolfed in all the sausages!' 

" 'Have I?' I says. ' Bless me so I have ! The 
best grub for bull-pups? There's nine different 
ways of feeding bull-pups. It's one of them sub- 
jects as sensible men can hold wrong opinions 
about. Have you ever noticed, Joe, ' I says, ' what 
a lot of subjects there are as sensible men can 
hold wrong opinions about?' 

" 'That ain't the point,' he says. 'The point 
is what the blazes you mean by wolfing in all the 
sausages?' " 

The porter's discourse served the valuable pur- 
pose of giving me time to search for a stable foot- 
ing. After several dubious experiments, I ven- 
tured to trust myself to the caprices of the 
pavement, and to my great satisfaction I gained 
the opposite side of the road without any more 
serious mishap than a few stumbles, and an invol- 
untary collision with a policeman, who roughly 
pushed me aside, and sent me staggering to a 
convenient lamp-post. I clung to it while I tried 
further adjustments of the muscles of my legs 
and feet to the pavement. The old gentleman 
was still sitting in the puddle. He gave a cordial 
salutation or a wave of the hand to each passerby, 
and continued to bear his misfortune with un- 
shaken fortitude. I have never seen greater 



86 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

cheerfulness in distress. A passing water cart 
showered its contents on his bald head and all 
over his clothes. This, while it increased the 
depth of the puddle in which he was sitting, 
seemed also to increase his optimistic and cour- 
ageous view of the situation. 

Upon looking up at the facade of the Theatre 
of Ideas, I found that the knowledge which I had 
gained within of its general drift and purpose, 
enabled me to interpret the mottoes that decor- 
ated the exterior. These were not in some foreign 
language, as I had previously supposed, but were 
in plain English, only all the letters were turned 
upside down, and were tumbling in disorder. 
Thus the motto over the main entrance ran as 
follows : 

With some difficulty I deciphered a few of the 
more prominent inscriptions that sprawled round 
the frieze. In a place of honour to the right, em- 
blazoned in large letters of gold on a marble 
ground, was an upside down text that I made 
out to run: 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 87 

WHAT IS DUTY? 

Everybody do exactly as he pleases 

On the opposite side shone two rows of dis- 
jointed letters, formed of diamonds, rubies, and 
emeralds, set upon a plate of onyx. After some 
puzzling I found the top line read : 

WHAT IS HAPPINESS? 

I hastened to interpret the lower line. With 
infinite trouble and much twisting of my head I 
discovered the answer was: 

Ten votes fob evebybody. 

The Director of the Theatre of Ideas happened 
to be passing to his home at the moment when I 
had succeeded in mastering the text. I hailed 
him, and expressed my delight that he had found 
an answer to the maddening conundrum that 
had baffled the hopes and wasted the energies of 
the human race through the fruitless centuries. 
I asked him how they had hit upon this simple 
solution, which only needed to be stated to com- 
mand universal assent. He said that like all the 
other great Ideas that illumined their teaching, 



88 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

they had got it out of their own heads. They 
merely shut their eyes, and the Ideas came to 
them. He added that shutting your eyes was 
the great secret of getting profound Ideas; be- 
cause, if one kept one's eyes open, facts were 
almost sure to intrude and disturb the engender- 
ing of the Idea. I thereupon shut my own eyes, 
and immediately there floated before me a mil- 
lennium of unspeakable blessedness for everybody, 
to be secured by the simple process of ten pilgrim- 
ages to the ballot box. For the Director explained 
that in order to give full effect to their Idea, no 
voter would be allowed to cast more than one 
vote at a time. This would give him the pleasure 
of visiting the ballot box ten times on each elec- 
tion day. 

"You do not exclude women and children, I 
hope," was my earnest suggestion to him. 

"We exclude no one," he replied. 

"And surely you will admit our idiots, and all 
the rapidly increasing legions of the feeble-mind- 
ed and the imbecile. It would be a monstrous 
injustice to shut out these poor creatures from 
happiness, when it can be so easily showered 
upon them." 

He heartily concurred ; indeed, I gathered that 
he looked upon the enlargement of the voting 
power of the masses as a timely correction by 
human wisdom of the cruel blunder of Nature 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 89 

in creating such a large proportion of imbeciles 
among our population. 

The tighter I shut my eyes, the more convinced 
I became of the beneficence of the whole scheme. 
I was suddenly inflamed with a desire to enlarge 
its scope. 

"Couldn't you make it twenty votes for every- 
body," I urged, "and so double the sum of hu- 
man happiness at a single stroke?" 

He answered me rather churlishly, I thought. 

"The man, woman, child, or idiot who cannot 
be happy with ten votes deserves to be miser- 
able." And with this frowning retort he strode 
away. 

Thus do men, by their blindness to the logical 
development of their own Ideas, for ever shut the 
gates of happiness upon their kind. 

As I clung to the lamp-post, and gradually 
accommodated myself to the gradually lessening 
movement of the pavement, my eyes lighted upon 
another inscription, which I slowly succeeded in 
rendering as follows: 

WHAT IS ART? 

Something. Anything. Everything. 

A flood of illumination poured upon me as I 
gradually seized upon the meaning of this motto. 
I had carefully read five hundred and nineteen 



90 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

books upon art, without getting any clearer no- 
tion about it than that it was some inscrutable 
absurdity, which men talked about when they 
wished to proclaim their superior culture to their 
neighbours. But, as I dwelt upon this inscription, 
art for the first time became a reality to me. I 
stood gazing in ecstasy at the mere letters of the 
device. I could have knelt and kissed the feet of 
the authors of this sublime intuition. Its few 
plain, simple words opened new worlds of ravish- 
ing beauty to every member of our democracy. 

"God be praised for this formula!" I ex- 
claimed in a kind of religious fervor. "I can 
now equally enjoy a portrait by Velasquez, the 
latest diagrammatic chimera of the Post Impres- 
sionist, and the coloured chalk designs of the 
pavement artist. They are all equally inspired, 
equally beautiful. This enables me to do justice 
to our Harum-scarum and Pentonville-omnibus 
dramatists, and shows them to me in their right- 
ful place by the side of Shakespeare and Moliere. 
Now I can walk down Tottenham Court Road 
or Broadway with a heart full of joy in the fact 
that every tradesman is an artist by divine right 
of his calling." 

By this time the buzzing in my ears had sub- 
sided, and, upon letting go my hold of the lamp- 
post, I found that I was able, without much diffi- 
culty, to walk across the large green in front of 
the Theatre of Ideas. Upon turning to look at 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 91 

the building, I made the curious discovery that 
it was standing absolutely still, while the earth 
was gently and equably, but irresistibly moving 
round it. And by the time I had reached the 
other end of the green, I had perfectly adjusted 
myself to the earth's motion, which was indeed 
none other than its ancient secular revolution 
upon its own axis. Before I turned down the 
street to my home, I made a bow of profound re- 
spect to the Theatre of Ideas, for it had a most 
imposing outside. 

On passing through a side street, I came to a 
shop which I had often noticed before, without 
perceiving that it was kept by an artist, and that 
all the articles exposed for sale were works of 
art. But now, illumined by my new Idea as to 
the reality and universality of art, I saw every- 
thing with new eyes. I went in and bought an 
exquisitely shaped slop-pail, which was orna- 
mented with a flower-like design, and was ticket- 
ed "Artistic, six-pence-three- f arthings. " I am 
not one of those who deny the meed of praise 
or cash to an artist, so I insisted upon paying 
him its full value of sevenpence. I should have 
liked to retain it as an ornament to my own 
home ; but a new masterpiece of the Pentonville- 
omnibus school of drama being then announced, 
I conquered my natural reluctance to part from 
this work of art, and I sent it to the management 
of the theatre with my compliments, and a hope 



92 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

that it might form an ornamental, if not a useful, 
part of the mise en scene. The manager sent me 
back an extravagant letter of thanks, gratefully 
accepting the slop-pail, and saying that, welcome 
as it was as an ornament, it would be yet more wel- 
come as a utility in his new piece. He added that 
he had never seen a chaster slop-pail, or one that 
was more likely to have a great moral effect on 
playgoers. I am proud to say that it is the nightly 
admiration of the few discerning people who at- 
tend that theatre, and that it is entirely in keep- 
ing with the personages and milieu of the play. 

Upon arriving home with my new treasure, I 
learned that the collector had called for the Edu- 
cation Rate, and, after waiting for some time, had 
left with threats of prosecution. The next morn- 
ing I received a summons to attend the court as a 
defaulter. The case was clearly proved against 
me, and the magistrate administered a severe rep- 
rimand. He said that, in this wonderful age, 
any man who refused or neglected to contribute 
to the spread of Ideas among the masses, de- 
served to be held up to public reprobation as a 
bad citizen. He fined me Five Pounds. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 93 



Postscript 

For some time after my visit to the Theatre of 
Ideas, I noticed that a feeling of dizziness and a 
cloud of mental obscuration came over me, when- 
ever I approached its quarters. I therefore 
judged it better to avoid that neighbourhood. Af- 
ter a lapse of some weeks, I found myself one 
morning in a street that led up to that side of 
the building on which was situated the Sanctu- 
ary of Perpetual Peace. I was warned by a slight 
buzzing in the ears and an uneasy sensation in 
the pit of the stomach, that I had unconsciously 
strayed within the sphere of influence of the 
Theatre of Ideas. Instinctively I began a hur- 
ried retreat. But, on reflection, I felt that it was 
cowardly to run away, as this was indeed nothing 
but an acknowledgment of the weakness of my 
own mental and digestive powers. I paused, sum- 
moned all my resolution, turned right-about-face, 
and boldly marched up to the building. I gained 
confidence as I went along, and determined that 
for the future I would accommodate my move- 
ments to the local disturbances, whenever I vis- 
ited those parts. By the time I reached the 
Theatre of Ideas I had acquired my normal self- 
possession. 

As I came in full view of that side of the build- 
ing, I saw to my great surprise that three com- 



94. THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

panies of soldiers had planted each a large can- 
non on the opposite side of the street. The 
mouths of the cannons were pointed full at three 
windows of the lower story. I recognized these 
three windows as those which looked out from 
the large room of the Sanctuary of Perpetual 
Peace. Large stores of ammunition and shells 
were deposited by the sides of the great guns. I 
hurried up, and to my horror I heard the com- 
manding officer in charge of the large central 
cannon giving orders to load it. I demanded 
from one of his lieutenants what was taking 
place. He replied that the site of the Theatre 
of Ideas was a very pleasant and valuable one, 
and that it was proposed to batter down the pres- 
ent edifice and build in its place three comfort- 
able mansions, for the officers of the guns re- 
spectively. There would then be room for a 
church in the corner facing the green. He said 
the continued presence of the cannons would 
ensure the unimpeachable orthodoxy of the 
church. I began to remonstrate with him, but he 
thrust me out of the way, and gave directions 
to his men to load the cannon. The other com- 
panies of soldiers were lifting large shells 
to charge their guns. I glanced all round at 
the faces of the men and officers, and be- 
came convinced that they were in deadly ear- 
nest. 
An instinct of humanity seized me. I rushed 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 95 

round to the front of the building, ran up the 
marble steps, past the jovial, red-faced porter 
who was asleep on his bench, and entered the 
main hall. The performances on the floor were 
much of the same character as those which had 
taken place on my previous visit. In place, how- 
ever, of the single rocking-horse and its rider, 
there were now three rocking-horses, whose riders 
were all bravely stabbing away at invisible foes, 
while each of them had gathered a crowd of ad- 
miring and applauding onlookers. The drums 
were beating, and the trumpets were blaring. In 
the side alley the stalwarts were shouting "Vic- 
tory," and butting furiously at the brick wall. 
The only other noticeable change was in the 
group of statues. Shakespeare had cracked, and 
was lying in pieces on the floor. The modern 
statues were tilted at different angles, each in his 
own particular pose ; while in the centre of them 
was the blatant figure of the Polyfadistic Impos- 
siblist, placed exactly upside down. His out- 
stretched legs, rather widely apart, reached up- 
wards towards the ceiling, in an attitude of mis- 
chievous provocation, one towards heaven, and the 
other towards the earth. A knot of admirers were 
gaping up at him. 

"His very boots talk!" I heard one of them 
enthusiastically exclaim, as I hurried by on my 
errand of warning to the Sanctuary of Perpetual 
Peace. Panting with haste and alarm, I entered 



96 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

its door without ceremony. A wild scrimmage of 
loud words and blows was taking place in the 
middle of the room. Pugg had got Poap down, on 
the floor, and was kneeling on him, pumping all 
the wind out of him by a bellows-like movement of 
his knees on Poap 's stomach, and knocking Poap 's 
head with the hard corner of the volume "War 
Finally Vanquished." Meake was vainly trying 
to get Pugg off Poap's stomach. 

"We all think alike," Meake was bleating. 
"We all agree as to the end. We only differ as 
to the means." 

I pushed my way to them. 

"They're going to blow you all to pieces!" I 
shouted. "Come out of it! Make haste! Look! 
Look! They're going to fire on you!" 

I pointed to the windows. After much shout- 
ing and shaking, I managed to get them to listen 
to me. Pugg, leaving Poap on the floor, went to 
the middle window and looked out. Meake went 
to the window on the left, and Poap, getting up 
from the floor, recovered his wind, and went to 
the window on the right. 

Meake gazed at the soldiers and cannon. "It 
must be an optical illusion," he said. 

I assured him it was nothing of the kind, but 
that they were real soldiers and real cannon. 
Meake put on a pair of spectacles to see them 
more clearly. Pugg lifted up the centre window, 
and shook his fist at the soldiers, gesticulating 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 97 

violently and calling out, "Down with War! 
Root it out!" 

"Where's my tract, 'War — An Economic Fal- 
lacy'?" Poap called out to his pupils. One of 
them brought him a copy of the tract. 

1 ' I cannot think they mean to load those guns, ' ' 
said Meake complacently. 

I told him that by this time the guns were 
already loaded. 

"I'm sure they can't mean to let them off," 
said Meake. "They all seem to be such dear, 
nice, gentle, kind-looking men." 

They appeared to me to have stern and brutal 
countenances, and to be villainously determined. 

Pugg continued to shake his fist at the soldiers, 
threatening to root them out, and exterminate 
them forthwith. Poap opened his window. 

"Listen to this," he bawled across the street. 
"I'll have you to know that War is an Economic 
Fallacy." 

He began to read his tract in a loud, authori- 
tative tone. 

"I'll go out and talk to them," said Meake, 
taking off his spectacles, and making for the 
door. 

I felt that I had sufficiently done my duty by 
warning them, and that it would be advisable 
to save myself while there was time. I was hur- 
rying to the door 



98 THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 

"Bang!" came from outside. And then an- 
other terrific, 

"Bang!" 

Part of the front wall of the room tumbled in. 
I had a momentary vision of Pugg 's headless form 
in the middle window. It continued to shake its 
fist and gesticulate. Poap was left unscathed, 
and went on expounding the Economic Fallacy 
of War, puffing out great quantities of wind. 
Meake 's body and clothes were scattered in pieces 
about the place, and his spectacles dropped close 
to me. At the first explosion I fell flat upon my 
face, and I now crawled out into the main hall as 
quickly as I could. The greatest consternation 
prevailed in the Theatre of Ideas. Its parapher- 
nalia were wrecked, and crowds of its affrighted 
frequenters were hurrying hither and thither in 
aimless confusion. But the Polyfadistic Impos- 
siblist remained unshaken in his topsy-turvy pos- 
ture, with outstretched legs in the air, impudently 
arraigning everything in heaven and on the earth. 

Another deafening "Bang!" came from out- 
side, as I got upon my feet, and jostled with the 
panic-stricken crowd to gain the exit. The dome 
of the place cracked and opened, and the great 
clock fell backward into pieces. As I was strug- 
gling to get out, I came across the amiable Direc- 
tor. His face wore a look of woeful dejection. 

"And just as it was all working so splen- 
didly!" he pathetically ejaculated. 



THE THEATRE OF IDEAS 99 

The crush bore me past him, and in a few min- 
utes I found myself safely outside on the marble 
steps. Another and yet another explosion shook 
the whole edifice as I descended to the street. 
Fragments of the mottoes that adorned the frieze 
came clattering down about our feet. I picked 
up some of these broken pieces. To my astonish- 
ment I found that the scrolls and devices on the 
outside of the building, instead of being of gold 
and marble and precious stones, as I had sup- 
posed, were the flashiest brummagem imitations. 
The mottoes composing the texts, "What is 
Duty?" and "What is Happiness?" were of the 
cheapest tinsel ; and the rubies and emeralds were 
nothing but clumsily cut lumps of coarse coloured 
glass. I have kept the fragments that I collected, 
and I can show them to anyone who questions my 
word. They could never have been mistaken for 
gold and precious stones if they had not been 
placed on the imposing facade of the Theatre of 
Ideas. I have since had grave doubts about the 
trappings of Pegasus, and the gold nails on the 
mane of Bucephalus. 

The firing now became more frequent, and I 
hurried across the green to escape from the fall- 
ing masses of debris. When at length the can- 
nonading ceases, I question whether much will re- 
main of the Theatre of Ideas. 



NOTE. — The acting rights of the three following plays 
are fully protected in all countries. Legal proceedings 
will be taken against anyone who attempts to infringe 
them. Application for terms for professional dramatic 
performances in America and Canada should be ad- 
dressed to The American Play Company, JEolian 
.Building, 33 West 42nd St., New York. For amateur 
performances to Messrs. Samuel French, Playbrokers, 
West 38th Street, New York. 



THE GOAL, 

A Dramatic Fragment 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

Sir Stephen Famariss, the great Engineer 
Daniel Famariss, his son, Engineer 
Sir Lydden Crane, M.D. 
Adams, Sir Stephen's Butler 
Peggie Lovel 
Nurse Clandon 

Scene: Sir Stephen's bedroom in Belgravia. 
Time: 1897. 



THE GOAL 

Scene : The dressing room of Sir Stephen Famariss, 
Belgrave Square. A very richly furnished apart- 
ment, with every evidence of wealth and luxury. 
Up stage right an archway, set diagonally, shows 
a bedroom beyond with foot of brass bedstead 
placed sideways to audience. The bedroom is dimly 
lighted. A large bow-window, rather deeply re- 
cessed, runs along the left at back, and looks 
across a courtyard to another house, whose win- 
dows are brilliantly lighted. Figures dancing are 
seen moving across the windows in accordance with 
indications given through the play. Between arch- 
way and window a large handsome bureau. A door 
left down stage. Down stage right, fireplace with 
fire burning. A mirror over fireplace. A large 
comfortable sofa down stage right. A table left 
of sofa near centre of stage, with bottle of cham- 
pagne and glasses on it. Another table up stage 
left above door. Upon it medicine bottles, spirit 
lamp, and other paraphernalia of a sick room. A 
large pier looking-glass up stage above sofa. Other 
furniture as required, all indicating great wealth 
and comfort. Time, about ten on an April evening. 
Discover on sofa, asleep, Sir Stephen Famariss. 
A rug is thrown over him, and his head is buried 
in a pillow, so that nothing is seen of him but a 

103 



104? THE GOAL 

figure under the rug. Nurse Clandon, in nurse's 
costume, about thirty, is seated in chair at table, 
reading. The door, left, is very softly opened, and 
Sir Lydden Crane enters, a little, dry, shrewd, 
wizened old man about seventy, with manners of a 
London physician. Nurse rises and puts down her 
booh. 

Crane. Well? How has he been all the afternoon 1 ? 

Nurse. Just as usual. He won't keep quiet. About 
an hour ago he fell asleep. 

[Pointing to Sir Stephen. 

Crane. Mr. Daniel Famariss has not arrived 1 ? 

Nurse. No. He sent another telegram for him this 
evening. And he keeps on asking for the evening 
papers. 

Crane. Well 1 ? 

Nurse. I've kept them from him. They all have long 
accounts of his illness. [Taking an evening paper from 
under the table cover, giving it to Crane.] Look! 

Crane. [Taking paper, reading. ,] "Sir Stephen Fa- 
mariss, the great engineer, is dying " Hum ! 

[A very gentle knock is heard at door left. 
Nurse goes to it, opens it. Adams comes 
in a step. 

Adams. I beg pardon. Mrs. Lovel has sent in to ask 
how Sir Stephen is; and to say that she's very sorry 
the ballroom is so near his bedroom; and if the noise 
of the ball will upset Sir Stephen, she'll be very pleased 
to put it off, and send her guests away? 

Nurse. What do you think, Sir Lydden? 

Crane. All excitement is very dangerous for Sir 
Stephen. The next attack may be fatal. Will you give 



THE GOAL 105 

my compliments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she 
is so kind I will beg her to postpone the ball ? [Sir Ste- 
phen stirs, throws off the quilt. He is in a rich dress- 
ing-gown. A wiry, handsome, very intellectual-looking 
man about seventy-five; well-seasoned, vigorous frame; 
pale, sharp, strong features, showing signs of great re- 
cent pain. 

Sib S. Will you give my compliments to Mrs. Lovel, 
and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to do 
nothing of the kind. What rubbish, Crane ! Because I 
happen to be dying, to stop the innocent pleasure of a 
couple of hundred young people! Thank Mrs. Lovel 
very much, Adams, for sending in, and say that I'm 
not at all sure that I shall die to-night ; but that if I do, 
her dancing won't in the least interfere with my dying, 
and I hope she won't allow my dying to interfere with 
her dancing. I very much wish the ball to take place. 
[Very imperiously.] It's not to be put off! You un- 
derstand? 

Adams. Yes, Sir Stephen. [Going. 

Sib S. And, Adams, give my compliments to Mrs. 
Lovel, and say that if she doesn't mind, I should like to 
see Miss Lovel in her ball dress for a moment before 
the ball. Say that I'm quite presentable, and I won't 
frighten Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams. 

Sib S. Well, Crane, am I going off this time? 

Crane. This last attack coming so quickly after the 
other is very alarming and — very dangerous. 

Snt S. Yes, but am I going to pull through again, or 
must I put up the shutters? 

Crane. Well — well 

Sir S. [Seeing paper on table where Crane has put 



106 THE GOAL 

it.] Is that to-night's paper? [No reply.] Give it to 
me. 

Crane. [Deprecatingly.] Famariss 

Sir S. Give it to me. 

[Crane gives it to him reluctantly. 

Sir S. [Beading from paper.] "Alarming illness of 
Sir Stephen Famariss. Angina Pectoris. Fatal symp- 
toms. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is 

dying " There's nothing like making sure of your 

facts. 

Crane. Too sure! 

Sir S. [Drily.] So I think. What do you say? How 
long am I going to live? 

Crane. Well 

Sir S. Come out with it, old friend. I'm not afraid 
to hear. 

Crane. With the greatest care, I see no reason why 
you shouldn't live some weeks — or months. 

Sir S. Shall I live long enough to carry out my Mil- 
ford Haven scheme? Tell me the truth. 

Crane. No. You certainly won't. 

Sir S. [Shows intense disappointment.] You're 
sure? 

Crane. I'm sure. 

Sir S. But I shall live long enough to start it, to put 
it into other hands, into my son's hands — if the rebel- 
lious fool will only learn wisdom and make it up with 
me before I die. I shall live long enough for that ? 

Crane. No. I fear not. 

Sir S. [Going to bureau.] But I've got a third of it 
on paper. [Taking out plans.] I've kept it here. I've 
worked at it when I couldn't sleep. If I can last out 



THE GOAL 107 

another six months, I can do it. Come, Crane, don't be 
stingy. Give me another six months! Eh? 

Crane. Famariss, you won't last six months even 
with the greatest care. You may not last six weeks 

Sir S. Nor six days? 

Crane. Nor six days. 

Sir S. Nor six hours? 

Crane. Oh ! 

Sir S. Nor six hours. Thank you. I'm prepared. 

Crane. Your son hasn't come yet? 

Sir S. No. I've telegraphed him twice — and my 
terms. 

Crane. Is it worth while — of course, you know 
best — is it worth while to stick out for terms when ? 

Sir S. When one is in face of death. Yes — on a 
matter of principle. If Dan comes here, he comes on 
my terms. I'll keep my word; I won't set eyes on him 
— he shan't pass that door until he owns he was wrong. 

Crane. But 

Sir S. [Getting excited.] But he was wrong. He 
was wrong, and no power on earth shall make me 

Crane. [Soothing Mm.] Hush! If he does come, 
you must avoid all excitement in meeting him. Your 
only chance of prolonging your life is to keep abso- 
• lutely quiet. You must lay up all day 

Sir S. Lay up all day! Don't talk nonsense! 

Crane. If you don't 

Sir S. If I don't 

Crane. You may die at any moment. 

Sir S. But if I do, I'm dead already. No, Crane, I'll 
live to my last moment, whenever it comes. When I do 
take to my bed, I'll take to it once for all, in the church- 
yard, beside my Peggie! [Very softly, very tenderly, 



108 THE GOAL 

half to himself.'] My Peggie! My Peggie! If I do 
go off, I shall see her again, I suppose — if it isn't all 
moonshine ! Open the window, Nurse ! It's getting hot 
here! {The Nurse opens window.'] Open that cham- 
pagne, Crane, and pour yourself out a glass, and pour 
me out a glass. My Peggie ! My Peggie ! I wonder if 
it is all moonshine! 

[The musicians in the ballroom opposite begin 
to tune up their fiddles. Nurse comes 
down. 
Sir S. That's right! Tune up! Tune up! And 
Peggie Lovel promised me the first dance ! Tune up ! 

Nurse. You must keep quiet 

Sir S. [Pettishly.] Run away! Run away! 

[Crane makes Nurse a sign, and she goes off 

into bedroom. Crane has opened the 

champagne and poured out two glasses. 

He brings one to Sir Stephen. 

Sir S. It's the eighty-four Saint Marceaux. I've 

left you half what's left of this, Crane, and I've left 

my mule of a boy the other half. He's my heir. I 

won't see him ; no, not if I 

Crane. Hush! Hush! 

Sir S. I won't see him unless he submits. But I've 
left him every penny, except what goes to charities and 
churches. It's very puzzling to know what to do with 
one's money, Crane. I've left a heap to charities, and 
I've squared all the churches. I hope it won't do much 
harm. [A little chuckle.] There's one thing I regret 
in dying, Crane: I shan't be able to hear my funeral 

sermons. But you will 

Crane. Don't make too sure. I may go off first; but 



THE GOAL 109 

if I am doomed, I hope the oratory will be of as good 
a vintage as this. 

Sir S. It ought to be, considering what I've left 
them all. Give them a hint, Crane, not to whitewash 
my sepulchre with any lying cant. Don't let them 
make a plaster-of-Paris saint of me! I won't have it! 
I won't have it ! I've been a man, and never less than 
a man. I've never refused to do the work that came in 
my way, and, thank God, I've never refused to taste a 
pleasure. And I've had a rare good time in this rare 
good world. I wish I'd got to live it all over again ! 

Crane. You do? 

Sir S. Yes; every moment of it, good and evil, pleas- 
ure and pain, love and work, success and failure, youth 
and age, I'd fill the cup again, and I'd drain it to the 
dregs if I could. You wouldn't? 

Crane. No. Once is enough for me. 

Sir S. You see, Crane, before starting in life, I took 
the one great step to secure success and happiness. 

Crane. What's that? 

Sir S. I made an excellent choice of my father and 
mother. Not rich. Not aristocratic. But a good, 
sound, healthy stock on both sides. What's the cause 
of all the weak, snivelling pessimism we hear? What's 
the cause of nine-tenths of the misery around us — 
ruined lives; shattered health; physical, moral, intellec- 
tual beggary? What's the cause of doctors' bills? 

Crane. Well, what is? 

Sir S. Men and women exercise no care in choosing 
their fathers and mothers. You doctors know it ! You 
doctors know it ! Once choose your father and mother 
wisely, and you can play all sorts of tricks with your 



110 THE GOAL 

constitution. You can drink your half bottle of cham- 
pagne at seventy-five and enjoy it ! Another glass ! 

Crane. No, I must be going ! [Rising.] And [tap- 
ping bottle] you mustn't take any more. 

Sir S. Don't talk nonsense! Sit down! Sit down! 
Another glass! Hobnob, man; hobnob! Life's but a 
span ! Why, this may be the last time, eh ? 

Crane. Any time may be the last time. Any moment 
may be the last moment. 

Sir S. Well, then, let's enjoy the last moment! I 
tell you, Crane, I'm ready. All my affairs are in per- 
fect order. I should have liked to finish that Milford 
Haven scheme; but if it isn't to be — [deep sigh] — 
Hobnob, man; hobnob! 

Crane. What a lovely wine! 

Sir S. Isn't it? I remember Goethe says that the 
man who drinks wine is damned, but the man who 
drinks bad wine is doubly damned. Pray God you and 
I may be only damned once, Crane. 

Crane. Oh, that's past praying for — in my case ! 

Sir S. Eighty-four ! I was boring a hole through the 
Rockies that summer — ah, Crane, what glorious sum- 
mers I've had ! — seventy-five glorious golden summers — 
and now — Hobnob, man; hobnob! You've had a good 
innings, too, Crane. 

Crane. Hum! Pretty fair. I eat well, drink well, 
sleep well, get my early morning jog in the Park and 
enjoy it, get my two months on the moors, and enjoy 
them. I feel as fit to-day as I did thirty years ago. 
There's only one pleasure that fails me — [with a 
grimace at Sir Stephen] — Gone! Gone! Gone! 

Sir S. Don't fret about that ! We thought it a pleas- 
ure, old crony, while it lasted. Now it's gone, let's call 



THE GOAL 111 

it a plague and a sin, and thank God for giving us a 
little peace in our old age. Ah, dear, dear, what a 
havoc women have made of the best half of my life; 
but— [brightening]— I've left some good work behind 
me, in spite of the hussies! And, thank Heaven, my 
throat has held out to the last. [Drinking. 

Crane. [Drinking.] And mine! 

Sir S. Crane, what was that joke that came up at 
poor Farley's funeral ? 

Crane. Joke? 

Sir S. Don't you remember while we were waiting 
for them to bring dear old Farley downstairs, Maidment 
began telling that story about the geese and the Scotch- 
boy 

Crane. Yes, yes; to be sure! 

[Beginning to laugh. 

Sir S. And just as we were enjoying the joke, we 
suddenly remembered where we were, and you pulled 
us up, and spoilt the joke! 

Crane. Yes, yes, I remember. 

Sir S. Crane, if Maidment tells that story at my 
funeral, don't pull him up 

Crane. Eh? 

Sir S. It's a good joke, man ! Don't waste it ! Have 
your laugh out, and say from me that, other conditions 
being favourable, I'm enjoying it as heartily as any of 
you! You will, eh? You will? 

Crane. Yes, I will ! I will ! 

[They both laugh a little. Adams opens door 
left, and comes in a step. 

Adams. Miss Lovel has come, Sir Stephen. 

Sir S. Show her in, Adams. [Exit Adams. 

Crane. I must be going. 



112 THE GOAL 

[Reenter Adams, showing in Peggie Lovel, a 
debutante of eighteen, in her first ball 
dress'; radiant, excited, beautifully dressed, 
a vision of girlish loveliness. She is frivo- 
lous and self-conscious, and full of little 
airs and graces, constantly glancing at 
herself in the two mirrors. 
Adams. [Announcing.] Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams. 
Sir S. Come in, Peggie. I mustn't call you Peggie 
any more. Come in, Miss Lovel. 

Peggie. Mamma said you would like to see me for a 
minute before the ball ! 
Sir S. If you don't mind. 

Peggie. How d'ye do, Sir Lydden? [Shaking hands. 
Crane. How d'ye do, Miss Lovel? Good night, Sir 
Stephen. [Holding out hand. 

Sir S. Don't go, old chum. 

[Taking his hand, retaining it, keeping Crane. 
Crane. I must. [Taking out watch.] I have a con- 
sultation at eleven. 

Sir S. [Piteously.] Don't go, old chum. 
Crane. It's really pressing. It's Lord Albert Swale. 
He won't last till the morning. 

Sir S. Don't go. I may be meeting him soon, and I'll 
make your apologies. [Very piteously.] Don't go, old 
chum! 

Crane. I must. [Nurse enters from bedroom.] 
Nurse, I want a word with you downstairs. [Nurse 
crosses to left, and exit.] [To Snt S.] I'll look in, the 
first thing in the morning. 

Sir S. Do. You'll find me — at home. 
Crane. Good night. Good night, Miss Lovel. 
Peggie. Good night, Sir Lydden. 



THE GOAL 113 

Crane. [In a low tone to Peggie.] You mustn't stay 
long, and you mustn't let Sir Stephen excite himself. 
[To Sib S.] I'd rather see you in bed 

Sir S. [Very impatiently.] Tut! Tut! Tut! I won't 
be buried before I'm dead. [Rather curtly.] Good 
night. [Crane waits. 

Sir S. [Imperiously.] Good night! [Crane is go- 
ing.] And, Crane, remember — no whitewash on my 
sepulchre! [Exit Crane, left. 

[Peggie meantime has taken off her cloak. All 
through she is eager and excited, glances 
at herself in the glasses very often. 

Peggie. I'm so sorry you're ill, Sir Stephen. 

Sir S. I'm not ill, my dear. The old machine seems 
just as strong and tough as ever, only — it's gone 
"crack" in a weak place. Well, I've knocked it about 
all over the world for seventy-five years, and if it 
hadn't gone crack in one place, I suppose it would in 
another. Never mind me. Let's talk about you. Go 
and stand there, and let me look at you. 

Peggie. [Displaying her dress.] Do you like me ? Do 
you like my dress? 

Sir S. It's a triumph! 

Peggie. [Chattering on.] You can't imagine what 
trouble mamma and I have taken over it. Long 
sleeves are coming in for evening wear. So I had long 
sleeves at first. I was all sleeves. So I had them 
taken out and short sleeves put in. The dressmaker 
made a horrible muddle of them. So we tried long 
sleeves again. I looked a perfect fright! 

Sir S. I won't believe it. 

Peggie. Yes, I did, I assure you. So at the last mo- 
ment I had the long sleeves taken out and the short 



114 THE GOAL 

sleeves dodged up with lace. Which do you like best? 
Long sleeves or short sleeves'? 

Sir S. Long sleeves for ugly arms — short sleeves for 
beautiful amis! 

Peggie. [Frowning at him and shaking her head.] 
Ah ! What do you think of the bodice? 

Sir S. Enchanting! 

Peggie. It is rather neat, isn't it? 

Sir S. Neat? I should call it gorgeous! 

Peggie. Oh, you must see the one I've got for the 
Lardner's dance next Monday. Would you like to 
see it? 

Sir S. Very much — on Monday. 

Peggie. I'll run in for a moment before I go. 

Sir S. Do. 

Peggie. That's a square-cut bodice. This is a round- 
cut bodice. Which do you like best? Round-cut bod- 
ices, or square-cut bodices? 

Sir S. To-night I like round-cut bodices. On Mon- 
day I think I shall prefer square-cut bodices. 

Peggie. I think I prefer a square-cut bodice. I had 
a square-cut bodice to this at first. I looked a perfect 
monster, so I had it taken out and this round-cut 
bodice put. I'm not sure that it's quite right now, and 
I've tried it on fifty times — I'm worrying you to death. 

Sir S. No! no! 

Peggie. Yes, I am, and I can't stay five minutes. 
Are you sure you wouldn't rather have the ball put off? 
We will put it off even now, if you wish. 

Sir S. Not for the world! not for the world! 

Peggie. That's so good of you! But I really think 
you'll be better to-morrow. I'm sure you will. You 



THE GOAL 115 

aren't really very ill, are you? Do you like this em- 
broidery? [Pointing to trimming on her skirt. 

Sir S. It's beautiful! Isn't it Indian work? 

Peggie. Yes; handmade. It took a man twelve or 
fifteen years to make this one strip. 

Sir S. A quarter of a lifetime to decorate you for a 
few hours. It was time well spent. Ah, Peggie, that's 
the sum and meaning of all our toil and money-grub- 
bing! 

Peggie. What is? 

Sir S. To make our women-folk beautiful. It all 
comes to that in the end. Let Nature and Art knock 
their heads together till doomsday, they'll never teach 
one another any finer trick than to show a beautiful 
maiden to a handsome young fellow, or a handsome 
young fellow to a beautiful maiden. 

[Peggie has got behind him and is admiring 
herself in the glass. 

Peggie. Really! Really! Yes, I suppose you're 
right. You're sure I'm not worrying you 

Sir S. No, no. Don't go. I'm quite at leisure now 
to the end of my life. 

Peggie. Oh, you mustn't talk like that! So I may 
tell mamma that you like my dress? What do you 
think of the skirt? 

Sir S. Isn't there too much trimming on it? 

Peggie. Oh, no ! Oh, no ! 

Sib S. Yes, there's too much trimming. 

Peggie. Oh, no ! Oh, no ! The dressmaker said there 
wasn't enough. 

Sir S. Stupid hussies, dressmakers! They're like 
other folks ! They're always the last to know anything 
about their own business. Tell your dressmaker that 



116 THE GOAL 

simplicity is the keynote of a great style in dressmak- 
ing, and engineering — subtle simplicity. The next time 
she is going to make you a dress, tell her to take a 
walk through our National Gallery 

Peggie. Oh, Sir Stephen, you surely wouldn't dress 
me like those old guys in the National Gallery! What 
would my partners say ? 

Sir S. Your partners ! Ah, you pretty tyrant, you'll 
turn a great many heads, and set a great many hearts 
beating to-night! 

Peggie. Shall I? Shall I? 

Sib S. Why, you've set my old worn-out heart flutter- 
ing, and, goodness knows, it ought to have done beating 
for pretty girls at seventy-five — it ought to know better 
at seventy-five! But it doesn't, and — [rising with great 
determination] — I've a great mind 

Peggie. [A little alarmed.] Sir Stephen, what are 
you going to do ? 

Sir S. Don't you remember your promise? 

Peggie. My promise? 

Sir S. Your birthday party six years ago! You 
danced with me, and you promised that I should be 
your first partner at your first ball after you came out ! 

Peggie. Of course — I'd forgotten ! 

Sir S. But I hadn't! Will you keep your promise, 
Peggie? Will you keep your promise? 

Peggie. Wouldn't it be dangerous, and — you don't 
really wish it? 

Sir S. [Sinking down.] You're right, my dear. I'm 
foolish with old age. Forgive me! 

Peggie. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you'll be 
able to see us dancing across the garden. You can 
stand at that window and look on. 



THE GOAL 117 

Sir S. Look on ! That's all I'm fit for now — to look 
on at life! [Turning away his head. 

Peggie. Sir Stephen, what's the matter? 

Sir S. I've always been in the thick of the fight, 
Peggie. And I feel to-night as strong as ever I did, 
and they tell me I must lay up and look on — [rising 
with great energy and determination] — I won't! I 
won't ! 

Peggie. Sir Stephen. 

Sir S. I can't bear it, Peggie. I've enjoyed my life, 
and I don't want to leave it. I want to live, and live, 
and live — and I will! Ah, what a selfish old coward I 
am ! I'm like a man who has sat down to a good table 
d'hote, and eaten and drunk his fill, and now the host 
tells me my place is wanted for another guest, I cry 
out and want to have my dinner over again ! Don't 
take any notice of me, dear. Tell me about your part- 
ners. Who's going to dance with you to-night? 

Peggie. Oh, I suppose Mr. Lascelles, Freddie Lister, 
Lord Doverbury, Johnny Butler, Sir Egerton Wen- 
dover, Dick French — amongst others. 

Sir S. Peggie 

Peggie. Yes ■ 

Sir S. You won't misunderstand me, dear. I'm old 
enough to be your grandfather. [Takes her hand very 
tenderly.] You won't misunderstand me. [Very seri- 
ously.] Take care how you choose your partner for life. 
You'll have a wide choice, and all your future happi- 
ness, and the happiness perhaps of many generations 
to come, will depend on the one moment when you say 
"Yes" to one of the scores of young fellows who'll ask 
you to be his wife. Take care, dear ! Take care ! Look 
him thoroughly up and down ! Be sure that he has a 



118 THE GOAL 

good full open eye that can look you straight in the 
face; and be sure that the whites of his eyes are clear. 
Take care he hasn't got a queer-shaped head, or a low 
forehead. A good round head, and a good full high 
forehead, do you hear? Notice the grip of his hand 
when he shakes hands with you ! Take care it's strong 
and firm, and not cold and dry. No young man should 
have a cold, dry hand. Don't say "Yes" till you've 
seen him out of trousers, in riding dress, or court dress. 
Look at the shape of his legs — a good, well-shaped leg, 
eh, Peggie? And take care it is his leg! See that he's 
well-knit and a little lean, not flabby; doesn't squint; 
doesn't stammer; hasn't got any nervous tricks or 
twitchings. Don't marry a bald man! They say we 
shall all be bald in ten generations. Wait ten genera- 
tions, Peggie, and then don't marry a bald man ! Can 
you remember all this, dear? Watch his walk! See 
that he has a good springy step, and feet made of elas- 
tic — can do his four or five miles an hour without turn- 
ing a hair. Don't have him if he has a cough in the 
winter or the spring. Young men ought never to have 
a cough. And be sure he can laugh well and heartily — 
not a snigger, or a wheeze, or a cackle, but a good, deep, 
hearty laugh right down from the bottom of his chest. 
And if he has a little money, or even a good bit, so much 
the better! There now! You choose a man like that, 
Peggie, and I won't promise you that you'll be happy, 
but if you're not, it won't be your fault, and it won't be 
his, and it won't be mine ! 

Peggie. Very well, Sir Stephen, I'll try and remem- 
ber. 

Sir S. Do, my dear, do ! It's a good legacy, my dear. 



THE GOAL 119 

I've left you another. You won't be disappointed when 

my will's read 

Peggie. Oh, Sir Stephen! 

Sib S. No, you won't; but remember my advice to- 
night. That's the best wedding present for any girl. 

Peggie. Very well, Sir Stephen! I must be going. 

Good-bye. [Giving her hand. 

Sir S. Yes, I suppose you mustn't stay. [Taking 

her hand, keeping it as he had kept Crane's, as if he 

couldn't bear to let her go.] Good-bye. 

[Looking longingly at her with a mute en- 
treaty to stay. Peggie draws her hand 
away, puts on cloak, and goes to door, 
left. He watches her all the while. 
Peggie. [At door, runs back to him.] Sir Stephen, 
I'll keep my promise. You shall be my first partner. 
[Offering her card.] Write your name down for my 
first dance. 

Sir S. But I shan't be there. 

Peggie. I'll sit out, and keep it for you. 

Sir S. No, no 

Peggie. Yes, yes ! I insist. Put your name down ! 

[He writes on her card. Enter Nurse, left. 
Peggie. Good-bye, Sir Stephen. 
Sir S. Good-bye, Peggie! [Softly.] Peggie! Her 
name was Peggie ! My wife's name was Peggie ! 

[She bends and kisses his forehead; then goes 
to door, turns and looks at him. 
Peggie. Au 'voir. 

[Blows him a kiss and exit, left. Sir Stephen 
looks longingly after her, walks a little up 
and down the room. 



120 THE GOAL 

Nurse. [Anxiously.] Sir Stephen, don't you think 
you might lie down now? 

Sir S. Run away ! Run away ! 

Nurse. Won't you rest a little on the sofa? 

Sir S. Run away! Run away! 

Nurse. Can I get you anything? 

Sir S. Run away! Run away! [Pacing up and 
down.] Mr. Daniel Famariss hasn't come yet? 

Nurse. No. You know they said that he was away 
surveying in an out-of-the-way country, where no mes- 
sage could reach him. 

Sir S. If he should come too late, tell him — tell him — 
I've gone surveying in an out-of-the-way country — 
where no message can reach me! [Changing tone.] 
Dear me, Nurse, I'm afraid this dying is going to be a 
very tiresome business for both of us! 

Nurse. Oh, Sir Stephen, I'm sure I don't mind! 

Sir S. You don't mind? That's very good of you. 
You're in no hurry? Well, neither am I. 

Nurse. Sir Stephen, don't you think 

Sir S. What? 

Nurse. Last night you said you'd send for a clergy- 
man. 

Sir S. Did I? That was at two o'clock in the morn- 
ing. How horribly demoralized a man gets at two 
o'clock in the morning! 

Nurse. But, Sir Stephen 

Sir S. Well? 

Nurse. Don't you think you ought to begin to think 
of better things? 

Sir S. Well. I'm seventy-five. Perhaps it is nearly 
time. What better things? 

Nurse. Death and — judgment. 



THE GOAL 121 

Sir S. Don't talk nonsense. I don't call death and 
judgment better things. 

Nurse. But, Sir Stephen — you will be judged. 

Sir S. Judged? Yes. But I shan't be judged by 
the prayers I've said, and the psalms I've sung. I 
shan't be judged by the lies I've told, and the deceits 
I've practised, and the passions I've given way to. I 
shan't be judged by the evil and rottenness in me. No ; 
I shall be judged by the railways I've made, and the 
canals I've scooped, and the bridges I've built — and let 
me tell you, my dear creature, my accounts are in good 
order, and ready for inspection at any moment, and I 
believe there's a good balance on my side. [Guests 
have been assembling in the ballroom. Dance music 
bursts out. Dancing begins.] Ah! What tune is 
that? 

[Goes up to window, begins dancing a few 
steps, swaying with the music. 

Nurse. [Frightened.] Sir Stephen! Sir Stephen! 

Sir S. Run away ! Run away ! 

Nurse. Sir Stephen, you wouldn't be found dancing 
at the end ? 

Sir S. Why not? I've done my work! Why 
shouldn't I play for a little while? [A bell is heard.] 
Hark ! The front door bell 

Nurse. Yes. [Goes to door, left. 

Sir S. Go downstairs and see if that's my son. If it 

is, tell him 

[Gentle knock at door, left. Adams enters a 
step. The dancing and music are contin- 
ued in the ballroom. 

Adams. I beg pardon, Sir Stephen. Mr. Daniel 
Famariss has arrived 



122 THE GOAL 

Sir S. Ah! [Getting excited. 

Adams. And would like to see you. 

Sir S. Tell him he knows the conditions. 

Nurse. But, Sir Stephen 

Sir S. Run away, my good soul! Run away. [To 
Adams.] He knows the conditions. If he accepts them, 
I shall be pleased to see him. 
Dak. [Voice outside door.] Father! 
Sir S. Shut that door! 

[Adams nearly closes door, which is kept open 
a few inches from the other side. 
Dan. [Outside.] Father! You won't shut the door in 
my face? 

Sir S. Keep on that side of it, then. Adams, you 
can go. Leave the door ajar. 

[Exit Adams, left. Sffi Stephen, with an im- 
perious gesture, points Nurse to arch- 
way right. Exit Nurse, into bedroom, 
with an appealing gesture to Sir Ste- 
phen. 
Sir S. [Goes to door, left; it is still open a few 
inches.] Are you there, Dan? 
Dan. [Outside.] Yes, father. 

Sm S. I vowed I'd never set eyes on you again, till 
you owned you were wrong about those girders. You 
were wrong? [No reply.] You were wrong? [No 
reply.] Do you hear? Confound you, you know you 
were wrong! [No reply.] Do you hear, Dan? Why 
won't you say you were wrong? You won't! [Slams 
door, goes right, has an outburst of anger, recovers, 
listens, goes back to door, opens it a little.] Are you 
there, Dan? 
Dan. [Outside.] Yes, father. 



THE GOAL 123 

Sib S. You were wrong, Dan. [No reply.] I haven't 
got long to live, Dan. It's angina pectoris, and the 
next attack will kill me. It may come at any moment. 
[Very piteously.] Dan, you were wrong? Why won't 
you say so 1 ? Even if you tell a lie about it? 

Dan. [Outside.] I was wrong. 

Sib S. Ah! [Flings open the door, Dan runs in. 
Sib Stephen meets him, embraces him affectionately, 
with a half sob.] Why didn't you say it before? You 
knew how much I loved you. Why did you keep apart 
from me all these years? 

Dan. I'm sorry, sir. But perhaps it was for the best. 
I've done very well. 

Sib S. Of course you have. You're my son. But 
how much better you'd have done if you had stuck to 
me ! How much better we both should have done ! I'm 
sorry, too, Dan. I was wrong, too — not about the gir- 
ders. You were wrong about them, Dan. But I was 
wrong to be angry and to swear I wouldn't see you. 
Ah, what could I have done with you at my side! I 
could have carried out my Milford Haven scheme. 
Perhaps it isn't too late! [Going to bureau, getting 

more and more excited.] I've got all the plans here 

[Taking out a heap of plans. 

Dan. Not now, father; not now! 

Sib S. Yes, now, my boy! To-morrow may be too 
late! [Going to table.] Come here, my lad! Oh, Dan, 
what years we've wasted ! Come here ! I want you to 
carry this out. You'll have immense opposition. Beat 
it down! You'll have to buy Shadwell and his lot. 
They're a dirty gang. But you'll have to do it. I hate 
bribery, Dan; but when you've got to do it, do it thor- 
oughly ! Then there's Mincham. Buy him over, if you 



124 THE GOAL 

can, at a small figure — say a thousand pounds — he's a 
mean little cur; but offer him that, and if he won't take 
it, snap your fingers at him, and swamp him ! Remem- 
ber the trick, the scoundrel's trick, he served me over 
the granite for the viaduct. Remember it, Dan, and 
don't spare him! Swamp him! Swamp him! * [With 
great energy of hate. 

Dan. Father 

Sik S. Bring your chair up. I must go on now — 
while it's all before me! I want you to carry this 
Milford Haven scheme out! I want it to be said that 
what old Stephen Famariss couldn't do, young Dan 
Famariss could! The father was a great man, the son 
shall be a greater, eh? Look here, you must start on 
this side. I've had all the soundings made 

Dan. To-morrow, father; to-morrow! 

Sir S. No, now! There's no such thing as to-mor- 
row ! We'll go through it now — in case There's a 

great world-tussle coming, Dan — I shan't live to see it — 
but it's coming, and the engineer that ties England and 
America will do a good turn to both countries. England 
to America in four days ! I want that crown to rest on 
your head ! Look ! You must begin here ! Look ! Just 

there ! You must throw a bridge over 

[Stops suddenly, puts his hand to his heart; 
his face indicates intense agony. Nurse 
enters from bedroom. 

Dan. Father ■ 

Sir S. [Persisting, with a wild aimless gesture.] 
Throw a bridge from here — to the other side, and 
then 

Dan. Father, what is it? 

* 1 Kings, chap, ii., verses 8, 9. 



THE GOAL 125 

Sir S. The end, Dan. [His face shows that he is 
suffering great pain. A great burst of dance music. 
They offer to support him. He waves them off.] No, 
thank you. I'll die standing. England to America in 
four days. [Long pause. He stands bolt upright with 
great determination.] You were wrong about those 
girders, Dan — My Peggie — I wonder if it's all moon- 
shine — Peggie — My Peggie 

[Dies, tumbles over table. Music and dancing 
in ballroom louder than ever. 

CURTAIN. 



HER TONGUE, 

A Comedy in one act 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

Miss Patty Hanslope, about thirty 

Minnie Bract, her cousin 

Walter Scobell, a rich Argentine planter 

Fred Bracy, Minnie's husband 

Waiter 

Scene. Varley's Private Hotel, Southampton. 
Time. The Present — a morning in Autumn. 



HER TONGUE 

Scene: Varley's Hotel, Southampton. A private sit- 
ting room furnished in an old-fashioned, rather 
dingy, comfortable way. A door at back to the 
right, leading into a passage. A fireplace, right, 
with fire burning. A large looking-glass over the 
fireplace. A large bay window all along left, giv- 
ing a view of a garden, and beyond its wall ship- 
ping, masts, big steamer funnels, etc. Left centre, 
toward the window, a large narrow table with a 
cloth. 

[Discover Waiter, showing in Fred and Min- 
' nie Bract. 

Waiter. How long should you require the sitting- 
room, sir? 

Fred. [An ordinary Englishman, about thirty-five.] 
Only for an hour or so. My friend is leaving by the 
Dunstaffnage — what time does she sail? 

Waiter. At two o'clock. Will this room suit you, 
sir? 

Fred. Yes; this will do. When my friend comes 
back, ask him to come here. 

Waiter. Yes, sir. [Exit. 

Fred. [Laughing.] Well, this is a pretty mad bit of 
business. 

Minnie. [A well-dressed Englishwoman, about 

129 






130 HER TONGUE 

thirty.] Not at all! I saw Mr. Scobell was rather 
struck by Patty at the ball last week. It was lucky she 
was staying at Southsea and could get over so easily. 

Fred. What's the good of bringing her over for an 
hour? They can't fix up an engagement in that time. 

Minnie. Why not? Mr. Scobell seems to know his 
own mind. 

Fred. Oh, yes! 

Minnie. And he wants to get married. 

Fred. Yes; but you're going ahead too fast, old girl. 

Minnie. There isn't much time to waste, is there? 
He has only another hour in England, and he isn't 
engaged yet. What did he really say in the smoking- 
room last night ?_ y*> 

Fred. Nothing much. Except that he wanted a wife 
out there, and he wished he'd had an opportunity of see- 
ing more of Patty. And on the strength of that, you 
telegraph straight off to Patty to come here and meet 
him. 

Minnie. Naturally ! Mr. Scobell will be a very rich 
man, and I wanted to give poor old Pat a chance. 

Fred. She has muddled her love affairs terribly. You 
might just give Pat a friendly caution. 

Minnie. Her tongue? [Fred nods.] Yes, she does 
talk. 

Fred. And never says anything! But look at her 
mother ! 

Minnie. Oh, aunt's a downright horrid old bore ! 

Fred. And Patty's just as bad! Poor old Lorry! 

Minnie. Why poor old Lorry? 

Fred. Fancy being out alone in the wilds of Argen- 
tina, and having nothing to listen to but Patty's 
tongue, for four or five years. [Bursts into a roar 






HER TONGUE 131 

Minnie. Hush! 

[Enter at back, Lawrence Scobell, about 
thirty-five, rather heavy, thick-set, stolid, 
quiet, cautious. 

Fred. So you've turned up, Lorry? 

Scobell. Yes, there's a mistake about my cabin; 
wrong number; they've turned another fellow in. 

Minnie. Perhaps you'll have to stay till the next 
boat. 

Scobell. [Shakes his head.] Can't! 

Minnie. Not even to meet my charming cousin, 
Patty, and get to know her better? 

Scobell. [Shakes his head.] I must be in Buenos 
Ayres this day three weeks. Miss Hanslope is coming 
here? 

Minnie. [Taking out an opened telegram.] Yes, I've 
just got her telegram. She says — [reading] : "De- 
lighted to come over, will be at Varley's about twelve." 
She'll be here directly. 

Scobell. In your telegram to her you didn't mention 
it was on my account ? 

Minnie. No — at least I said you were sailing by the 
Dunstaffnage, and wished to say good-bye to her. 

Scobell. You haven't committed me ? 

Minnie. Oh no! But you are — a — interested in 
Patty? 

Scobell. Yes, indeed! 

Minnie. And you hope to be — still further inter- 
ested? 

Scobell. Yes. I dread the terrible loneliness out 
there. Not a soul to speak to for weeks together ! 

Minnie. Patty is splendid company — isn't she, Fred ? 



132 HER TONGUE 

Fred. Delightful ! You'll never have a dull moment, 
old boy. 

Minnie. She has refused three offers in the last six 
months. 

Feed. And I know Bill Garriss is screwing up his 
pluck to ask her. y , 

Minnie. [Shakes her head.] I'm afraid you don't 
stand much chance. Still you can but try. 

Scobell. Thank you. If you will merely give me 

half an hour alone with Miss Hanslope 

[Enter Waiter. 
V v Waiter. Mr. Scobell? 

Scobell. Yes. ^ »^M '^ w * ^V 

Waiter. A clerk from the shipping office wishes to 
see you about your cabin, sir. 

Scobell. I'll come to him. [Exit Waiter.] If Miss 
Hanslope comes, I shall be back in a few minutes. 

[Exit. 

Fred. Well, Patty can't say we haven't done our best 
for her ! 

Minnie. If only she won't talk too much ! 

Fred. Yes, Pat's a good-looking girl; if she'd only 
hold her tongue, nobody would ever guess what a fool 
she is! ;V\ o i 

Minnie. It was her terrible chatter that choked off 
George Mooreroft — he told me so himself. 

Fred. Perhaps Lorry won't find her out — he'll only 
have half an hour. Let's hope he'll spend all the time 
in looking at her f ^» vM * JW /Vv 

[Patty's voice heard in the passage; a moment 
or two later the Waiter opens the door 
for her and stands back; she is heard com- 



HER TONGUE 133 

ing along the passage speaking very rap- 
idly. 
Patty. [Off.] Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Bracy. He's a 
little fair man with reddish hair and a sandy bristling 
mustache that he's always curling up at the end, like 
the German Emperor, and she's a tall dark woman with * 
a Chinchilla muff, and a pointed nose something like 
my own. 

[Sailing into room, talking all the while. She 
is a handsome woman about 30, with a per- 
petual smile, and a perpetual stream of 
empty irrelevant talk, which flows on in a 
cackling but not unpleasant voice, and is 
constantly punctuated by an irritating, 
meaningless little laugh of three notes; the 
last note is the highest, so the laugh is 
never completed, but turns up unexpect- 
edly in another part of the sentence. She 
has an air of joyous self-complacency, and 
never suspects herself of being an empty 
silly fool. She over-emphasises nearly 
every word in a sentence, especially unim- 
portant adjectives and adverbs. 
[To Waiter.] Now, why couldn't you show me in at 
first instead of making such a fuss about it 1 ? 

[Waiter is going — she continues speaking.] 
Oh ! I've left a waterproof — please look after it. 

[Waiter goes off and closes door after him. 

[Patty goes up, opens it and calls off.] 

Oh, and an umbrella. [Closes door.] Well, here you 

are, my dear! [Kissing Minnie.] I've been racing all 

over the hotel to find you ! I do think Southampton is 

the most stupid place, and the waiters are absolutely 



134 HER TONGUE 

the most stupid people under the sun! "Well, dear, 
where is Mr. Scobell ? Do you really think now that he 
is — [silly little laugh] smitten? I couldn't quite under- 
stand your telegram, so I flew upstairs without any 
breakfast and dressed as quickly as I could. I hope I 
haven't overdone it — [glancing at herself in the glass] — 
because I don't wish Mr. Scobell to think me a dressy, 
extravagant woman. At the same time I want to look 
my — [silly little laugh] sweetest and best. Oh, Fred, 
how are you? How can Minnie let you wear such awful 
waistcoats? When I get a husband — [silly little laugh] 
I shall take care to Where have I put that tele- 
gram? [Searching her pockets and a handbag.] But 
you know I thought that night at the ball he was — 
[silly little laugh] because he kept on looking at me in 
a — [silly little laugh]. Well, you know how men look 
when they really are — [silly little laugh]. Oh, here it 
is! [Producing the telegram, reading.] "You have 
made a great impression [silly little laugh] on Mr. Sco- 
bell. He is most anxious to see you again [silly little 
laugh]. Meet us at Varley's Hotel, Southampton, early 
as possible. Your whole future at stake — most impor- 
tant you have an understanding with him before he 
sails." Do you know I think it was the dearest and 
sweetest thing in the world for you to spend all that 
money on a telegram — [kisses her] — and when it's all 
settled [silly little laugh] I shall give you my diamond 
and pearl brooch as a little acknowledgment — darling. 
You know, the one with the large pearl for the body of 
the bee — it's my favourite brooch. And I shall work 
Fred a very handsome waistcoat myself instead of that 
awful thing he's wearing. And do you really think, 



! 



HER TONGUE 135 

eh? [silly little laugh] Mr. Scobell is really, really, 
really smitten? 

Minnie. We've all but fixed it up for you ! You've 
only got to let him propose and accept him ! 

Patty. Thank you, dear. Of course I shall accept 
him if he gives me the chance. 

Minnie. He's tremendously rich — in a few years he'll 
be a millionaire. 

Fred. A multi-millionaire! You've only got to go\ 
out to Argentina for four or five years, Pat, and then- 
come back to London and help him to spend it. *•"*" ' > nJU*g 

Minnie. It will be your own fault if you don't bring 
it off this time ! 

Patty. My dear ! How can it be my fault when I've i 
simply flown over here without any breakfast to see 
him? I wonder if I could have just a biscuit, and ai fi 
glass of sherry? 

Fred. Certainly. 

Patty. No — it might make my nose red. My nose 
isn't red now, is it? [Glancing at herself in glass.] It 
always gets a little red when I go without breakfast. 
[Looking at herself in the glass.] I almost wish I'd put 
on my other hat — you know, the large one — [Her pres- 
ent hat is enormous] — but I thought it might get dusty 
— however if he is really — [silly little laugh]. I daresay 
it will do well enough [silly little laugh], and after all, 
it isn't what one wears as much as what one is in 
oneself that really matters — I think I'll take my hat 
off if you don't think it looks just a little too — too — 
[Takes hat off.] Yes, I really think that looks better 
— don't you? [Looking at herself in the glass.] Do 
you know I think I shall hang back at first, and give 
him just a tiny, tiny little wee bit of a snubbing 



136 HER TONGUE 

Minnie. My dear Pat, there's no time for that. 

Fred. Take my advice, Pat — come to business at 
once. The moment Lorry makes you an offer, or even 
a little before, down on him, and don't give him a 
chance of escape. 

Patty. Very well. I will. But I hope he won't 
think I'm throwing myself at him, because it isn't as 
if I hadn't got other chances. There's George Moor- 
croft only waiting for me to give him another chance — 
and I rather fancy Mr. Garriss is hoping I — [looking 
at herself in glass] — I'm sure my nose is a little red. 

Fred. Not a bit! Your nose is all right. It isn't 
your nose that will do the mischief. 

Patty. What then? What do you mean? 

Minnie. Now, Pat, don't get angry! George Moor- 
croft told me that the reason he hung back was 

Well, my dear, it was your tongue. 

Patty. My tongue ? ! My tongue ? ! ! My tongue? ? ! ! 
The reason George Moorcroft holds back is because I've 
very plainly given him to understand that it's abso- 
lutely not the least possible use in the world his coming 
forward! George Moorcroft! Why, he has the vilest 
temper. George Moorcroft! [With a little snort.] 

Fred. Well, never mind George Moorcroft. Lorry 
Scobell will be here in a moment. 

Minnie. Yes! Now, Patty, for your own sake — 
take care! 

Patty. Take care of what? 

Minnie. Mr. Scobell is a very cold, quiet, reserved 
man. 

Patty. Then he'll naturally want somebody who is 
very gay and lively. 



HER TONGUE 137 

Minnie. [Looking dubiously at Fred.] I don't think 
Mr. Scobell will like 

Patty. My dear Minnie, that shows how little you 
know about human nature. People are always at- 
tracted by their opposites. I'm very glad you've told 
me Mr. Scobell is cold and reserved, because now I 
know exactly how to manage him. I was going to be a 
little reserved and standoffish myself, but now, well, 
I shall be a little, just a little [silly little laugh] free 
and easy, so as to fit completely into his moods. Why 
are you two looking at each other like that ? Do let me 
know how to manage my own love affairs. Really any 
one would think I'd never had [silly little laugh] a pro- 
posal before! 

Fred. [Solemnly.] I hope, Patty, you'll never' stand 
in need of one again ! 

[Scobell enters at back with a steamship 

ticket in his hand. ^"^-M*.* 

Fred. [To Lorry.] Miss Hanslope has just arrived. 

Patty. [Shaking hands eagerly with Scobell.] How 
d'ye do? It was so kind of you to wish to see me 
again. I had a croquet party at the Barringers' — 
they're really very nice people, and one meets such a lot 
of nice people there, but the moment I got Minnie's 
telegram I flew off, and 

Fred. [Has been making signs to Patty to be quiet 
— he now bursts in upon her stream of talk.] One 
moment, Patty — Minnie and I have a little shopping to 
do, and if you'll excuse us — Lorry, old fellow, I'll or- 
der lunch for four, and I'll have it all ready to pop on 
the table the moment we come in. Come along, Minnie ! 
We must make haste ! 

[Exit.] 



138 HER TONGUE 

[Minnie kisses Patty, gives her a warning 

look and sign, and exit. 
[Scobbll has gone up to fireplace.] 

Patty. [Glances at him a moment.] So you're really 
sailing for Argentina to-day? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. I've always wished to travel. Of course, 
we've done Switzerland and the Riviera till we're utterly 
sick of it. I loathe Switzerland ! But I've always had 
a great desire to explore fresh countries, and camp out, 
and rough it a great deal, and perhaps do a little pig- 
sticking — that is if you wouldn't think it a little — 
just a tiny little bit [silly little laugh] unwomanly. 
I've such a horror of doing anything unwomanly. 
When I die I should like my epitaph to be "She never 
did anything unwomanly." Just that ! No more ! 
"She never did anything unwomanly." And perhaps 
you think pigsticking unwomanly? 

Scobell.. There is no pigsticking in Argentina. 

Patty. Isn't there? Then, of course, that settles 
the question. Where is Argentina? 

Scobell. In South America. 

Patty. South America! How awfully interesting! 
I've always dreamed of South America since I was a 
schoolgirl, and read about Red Indians, and the Incas, 
and Pagodas, and the Conquest of Peru. I can't re- 
member who it was that conquered Peru. [A pause.] 
Peru was conquered, wasn't it? [Pause.] Peru is in 
South America, isn't it? 

Scobell. Yes. [She looks at him — a longish pause. 

Patty. And so you really sail for Argentina this 
afternoon ? 

Scobell. Yes. 



HER TONGUE 139 

Patty. I felt so flattered when I got Minnie's tele- 
gram to say that you remembered me. And we only 
met that one night at the ball! But how often one 
finds that even chance meetings like ours are charged 
with lifelong consequences, doesn't one? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. One sees a face in a crowd, or perhaps in a 
railway carriage, or one hears a distant note of music; 
or perhaps in the bustle and whirl of a London season 
a sense of the utter emptiness of things comes over one, 
and one longs to throw off all the trammels of civilisa- 
tion, and live just a sweet simple existence in some 
new country — haven't you ever felt like that? 

Scobell. Not exactly. 

[Patty feels discouraged, and there is a long 
pause. 

Patty. So you really must sail for Argentina this 
afternoon ? 

Scobell. Yes. 

[Another long pause. Patty looks at him 
and then goes towards table. 

Patty. [In a colder, less eager voice.] I really 
couldn't understand Minnie's telegram. She said some- 
thing about your sailing, and you'd like an opportunity 
of seeing me. You did wish to see me? 

Scobell. Yes. [Coming up to her.] The fact is, 
I was very lonely out there, and last night in Fred's 
smoking-room I felt very down in the mouth at the 
thought of leaving England — and I thought — [ap- 
proaching her rather tenderly]. 

Patty. Yes? [Approaching him a little.] 

Scobell. I felt — [approaching her]. 

Patty. Yes? 



140 HER TONGUE 

Scobell. I thought if I could persuade some nice 
girl ■ 

Patty. Yes? 

Scobell. I dreaded being out there alone — 

Patty. How terrible for you ! How absolutely aw- 
ful! I think there's nothing more dreadful than that 
feeling of utter solitude and desolation that creeps over 
one when one is left alone for any long time. What 
do you do in Argentina? 

Scobell. I'm developing a large tract of land, cut- 
ting it up into farms. I farm one large tract myself. 

Patty. What a perfectly sweet life! Three years 
ago we went for a month to a farmhouse in Wales, and 
I used to watch the girl milking the cows every eve- 
ning. I asked her to let me try one evening, but she 
didn't understand a word of English, and the cow got 
rather troublesome, and when I patted her dear little 
calf she looked quite vicious, as if she was going to 
toss me. Not that I'm afraid of cows ! — Or of any- 
thing! In fact I love danger of all kinds! I posi- 
tively revel in danger ! That's my one fault — if it is a 
fault. And there couldn't be a prettier dress to face 
dangers and hardships in than a Welsh girl's. I won- 
der if it would be possible to get a Welsh dress in 
Southampton? No, there isn't time, is there? 

Scobell. I'm afraid not. [He goes to comer of 
table up stage.] 

[During the following scene he gradually gets 
into window — she gradually follows him 
up, gets on the right side of table, which 
is on casters; she unconsciously pushes it 
toward the window until she has hemmed 
him in the lower bay of the window, with 



HER TONGUE 141 

the table diagnonally across from middle 
of window to the corner of the bay, so 
that he cannot escape. This is done very 
gradually and quite unconsciously. 

Patty. [After a pause.] What do the women gen- 
erally wear in Argentina? 

Scobell. I haven't noticed. 

Patty. But they must wear something! I do think 
it's so charming when the women of a country adopt 
some distinctive national costume, like the Tyrolese or 
the Welsh. I believe that some of the Tyrolese women 
wear a dress that is — a — well, it's really a masculine 
dress. I couldn't do that ! I loathe masculine women, 
don't you? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. I think that when once a woman goes out of 
her own proper sphere and tries to be a man — well, she 
doesn't succeed, does she? 

Scobell. No. 

Patty. When a woman has so many attractions of 
her own, why should she go out of her own proper 
sphere and try to be a man? Why should she? 

Scobell. I don't know. 

Patty. I think I shall introduce a national style of 
dress into Argentina. What are the shops like in Ar- 
gentina ? 

Scobell. There aren't any shops where I live. 

Patty. No shops? 

Scobell. It takes three weeks to get to the nearest 
town. 

Patty. Oh, how delightful ! No shops ! It must be 
quite in the country. 

Scobell. [Looking at the steamship ticket in his 



142 HER TONGUE 

hand.] They've made a mistake in the number of my 
cabin. 

Patty. Have they? How careless of them ! I often 
ask myself how can people be so stupid ? How do you 
account for there being so many stupid people in the 
world? [He has been fidgetting — a pause.] What's 
the climate of Argentina? Is it very hot? 

Scobell. Rather — in the summer. 

Patty. And I suppose the winters are rather cold? 
I am so fond of the winter! I think there's nothing 
more delightful than to gather round the fire on a 
winter evening, while the logs are crackling on the 
hearth, and tell ghost stories. I know one or two aw- 
fully good ghost stories. Do you know at times I feel 
I must frighten people ! I do ! I can't help it ! I 
feel positively wicked! I made a whole party sit up 
at the Vicar's the other night. The Bishop said I made 
him feel quite uncomfortable. The dear Bishop! It 
was too bad of me to frighten him, wasn't it? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. Are you fond of ghost stories? 

Scobell. Not very. 

Patty. Then I shall tell you one. Not now — but 
one of these days I shall suddenly begin a creepy, 
creepy blood-curdler that I reserve for my special 
friends; and before you expect it, I shall make you 
positively shudder all over ! Positively shudder ! Now, 
don't say I didn't warn you. 

Scobell. I've got to change my ticket. 

Patty. But I don't know after all if I don't prefer 
the summer. The delightful long evenings ! But really 
I can make myself happy and contented anywhere. 
Nothing ever puts me out. If things go wrong, I 



HER TONGUE 143 

simply smile, and say all the pleasant things I can 
think of, and wait till everything comes all right again ! 
[A longish paurse.] We didn't settle what dresses I 
ought to get. And then, of course, there are mother's 
dresses to think of as well as my own. 

Scobell. You have a mother? 

Patty. Yes, didn't I tell you? I must have forgot- 
ten it. How I wish you could have met her! But, of 
course, there will be plenty of opportunities, won't 
there? [Pause — he doesn't reply.] You will like her 
so much. [Pause.] Everybody says I'm exactly what 
she was when she was twenty-five. [Scobell is fidget- 
ting and looking out of window. By this time she has 
pushed the table against the window so that he is quite 
hemmed in at the lower bay of the window.] I must 
tell you mother is rather a gay old creature. 

Scobell. Indeed! 

Patty. Yes. I rather pride myself on my good 
temper and my constant flow of animal spirits. [Silly 
little laugh.] Don't you think I have rather a good 
supply of animal spirits? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. I'm nowhere beside mother! She's simply 
wonderful ! Always the life and soul of any company 
she's in. [Pause.] You've been rather dull and lonely 
out in Argentina, Fred tells me? 

Scobell. Not very. 

Patty. Nobody could be dull and lonely for one 
moment where mother is. What amusements are there 
in Argentina? 

Scobell. There aren't any amusements. 

Patty. No amusements? 

Scobell. Not where I live. 



144 HER TONGUE 

Patty. Mother is so fond of society, and seeing 
everything, and going everywhere, and knowing every- 
body. 

Scobell. Argentina won't suit her at all. 

Patty. Oh, but of course, if I went to Argentina it 
would be impossible for me to leave my mother behind ! 
I simply couldn't do it! She is such a dear! Always 
ready to make herself pleasant and agreeable wherever 
she is. And she has such a fund of anecdotes and 
recollections ! And so witty and humorous ! I love 
wit and humour in a woman, don't you? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. I'd far — oh far, rather a woman were witty 
and humorous than merely beautiful, wouldn't you? 
Because beauty itself so soon fades, and when a woman 
has beauty and nothing else, well, it's like putting all 
the goods in the shop window, isn't it? And the mo- 
ment she loses her good looks — poor creature! what is 
she? Just a mere bit of faded finery to be thrown 
aside. I don't wonder that men quickly tire of some 
women, do you? 

Scobell. No. 

Patty. Nobody could tire of mother! And she's so 
ready at repartee — we had my Sunday school children 
to tea on our lawn, and we invited the new curate, and 
after tea he took the garden broom and was sweeping 
up the litter the children had made. "Ah !" my mother 
said, "new brooms sweep clean!" [Scobell doesn't 
laugh.] Just like that! Quite on the spur of the 
moment! "New brooms sweep clean!" [Scobell 
doesn't laugh, out stands quite still — an awkward 
pause. She explains rather sharply.] He was quite a 
new curate, and so she said "New brooms sweep clean." 



HER TONGUE 145 

[A long pause.] You will like my mother. [Scobell 
has been showing signs of restlessness, and glancing 
out of window at the ship's funnels. After a pause.] 
Is anything the matter? 

Scobell. No. I really must see about my ticket. 
[Making a slight effort to push the table from the 
window.] 

Patty. Yes, but — you — haven't — er — a 

Scobell. [Taking out his watch.] I'd better get 
across at once. 

Patty. But Minnie said you particularly wished to 
see me. 

Scobell. [A little lamely.] I thought I should like 
to have the pleasure of — of saying good-bye. 

Patty. Good-bye? But you sent for me to come 
from Southsea. I don't understand. Please explain. 

Scobell. I was agreeably impressed the other night 
at the ball, and I said so to Fred last night — and — in 
his smoking-room 

Patty. Yes. Well? 

Scobell. And on the strength of that Mrs. Bracy 
telegraphed • 

Patty. Yes, there's her telegram. [Producing tele- 
gram, giving it to him.] "Your whole future at stake — 
most important you have an understanding with him 
before he sails?" Read it! 

Scobell. I'm afraid Mrs. Bracy has been in- 
discreet 

Patty. Indiscreet! But you said yourself that you 
were agreeably impressed by me. [Pause. She speaks 
very sharply.] Did you or did you not say you were 
agreeably impressed by me? 

Scobell. At the ball — yes. 



146 HER TONGUE 

Patty. Yes. Well? And that you would like to see 
me? [Scobell does not reply. She speaks again very 
sharply.'] Did you or did you not say you wished to 
see me? 

Scobell. Yes. 

Patty. Yes. "Well ? Why did you wish to see me ? 

Scobell. [Lamely.'] I thought we might begin a 
disinterested friendship 

Patty. [With a little shriek, getting more and more 
angry, nearly crying with vexation and losing control 
over herself.] Disinterested friendship ! You couldn't 
suppose I should hurry over from Southsea for a dis- 
interested friendship ! 

Scobell. I'm very sorry if I have caused you any 
inconvenience. 

Patty. Inconvenience! I haven't had any break- 
fast! And I had a most pressing invitation to the 
Barringers'. They're quite the nicest people in South- 
sea — one meets everybody there. Instead of that you 
bring me over here [taking up the telegram which he 
has put on the table] on the distinct understanding that 
you intended — I don't understand your conduct, Mr. 
Scobell. Will you please give me some explanation of it ? 

Scobell. [Making a gentle movement to push the 
table back so that he can get out.] I must be getting to 
my boat. 

Patty. Surely, Mr. Scobell, you will not dare to 
leave me in this terrible uncertainty. Before you go 
on board we must please have a thorough understand- 
ing. [Seats herself resolutely at table. Pause.] Will 
you or will you not please give me some explanation of 
your conduct? 



HER TONGUE 147 

Scobell. [Getting angry and desperate.] But my 
boat sails — will you kindly let me pass? 

Patty. Not that I wish to force myself upon you! 
Please don't think that. I could never stoop to make 
myself cheap to any man ! I'm not driven to that 
necessity ! No ! No ! A thousand times no ! It's simply 
that my womanly pride and delicacy have been cruelly 
outraged. It's simply that I owe it to my sense of 
what is due to an English lady not to be dragged over 
from Southsea without any breakfast, and then made 
the sport of your caprice, while you sail off to Argen- 
tina, utterly oblivious of your honour, and of the woman 
you have entangled and deserted ! 

Scobell. Take it easy, my dear lady — take it easy ! 

Patty. [Shriek.] My dear lady! My dear lady! 
You first inveigle me here and then you insult me. Oh, 
if I had known ! Mr. Scobell, surely you will not be 
so ungentlemanly — so unmanly — but there will come a 
time when you will vainly remember how recklessly you 
threw away the happiness that is still within your grasp, 
if you only choose to pick it up ! [Suddenly bursting 
out.] Oh! What have I said? What have I said? 
Oh! [With a long wail she bursts into tears, flings 
herself over the table and sobs.] 

[Scobell, very uncomfortable, on the other 
side of the table, watches her with grow- 
ing embarrassment. 

Scobell. My dear Miss Hanslope, I'm terribly 
sorry 

Patty. [Wailing from the table.] If you're truly 
sorry, you can do no less, as a gentleman, than make 
amends. 

Scobell. Will you please let me pass out ? 






148 HER TONGUE 

Patty. Then you're prepared to take the conse- 






quences ? 

Scobell. Certainly. 

Patty. Very well ! Mr. Bracy will be here in a mo- 
ment to demand a full explanation of your conduct. 

Scobell. I'll write him about it. Meantime, my 
lawyers are Beame and Son, Gray's Inn Square. If you 
have any claim against me, please put your solicitors 
in communication with them. [Very decidedly.] Now, 
may I pass? 

Patty. [Magnificently.] No! How could you sup- 
pose that I could degrade myself by making a market 
of my most sacred feelings and bringing them into a 
Court of Law! No, the injuries you have done me 
cannot be paid by money — you have wounded my finest 

feelings! You have trampled upon 

[Enter Minnie and Fred at back.] 

Fred. Heigho! What's the matter? 

Patty. [Continuing her harangue to Scobell.] 
Yes, I refuse you! In the first place our slight ac- 
quaintance gave you no right whatever to make me an 
offer of marriage! And I'm sure the more I knew of 
you the less I should be inclined to accept you ! 

Fred. What's the matter? 

Patty. [Losing her self-control, bursting into a fit of 
rage.] I've never been so insulted in my life! [To 
Minnie and Fred.] How could you bring me over 
from Southsea only to be annoyed and insulted by this 
man? 

Fred. Lorry! What has he done, Pat? 

Patty. He has called me the most insulting names ! 

Fred. What names? [Looking at Scobell.] 

Patty. He said — he said — he said — "Take it easy, 



HER TONGUE 149 

my dear lady!" My dear lady! I've never been ad- 
dressed in such a manner before ! Minnie, here is your 
telegram ! Now I want you both to read that over care- 
fully, and say whether it doesn't amount to an offer of 
marriage. And then before you allow him to sail for 
Argentina, I want you to ask him plainly whether he 
intends to carry out his promise, or — where is he? 
[She has turned her back to Scobell to talk to Minnie 
and Fred.] 

[Meanwhile Scobell has crept under the table 
and emerges from under it on all fours. 

Fred. [To Scobell.] Lorry, we'd better clear this 
up, eh? 

Scobell. [Getting up.] I'll write you fully. Good- 
bye, old fellow. 

Fred. [Embarrassed.] You'll stay and have some 
lunch. 

Scobell. Haven't a moment. I must catch this boat. 
Good-bye, Mrs. Bracy! 

Minnie. Good-bye? But can't you explain? 

Patty. [Shrieks out to Fred.] You surely won't let 
him leave this room without an explanation? 

Scobell. [Hurrying off.] Take it easy, my dear 
lady ! Take it easy ! 

[Hurries off. 

Fred. You seem to have muddled it again, Pat ! 

Patty. It was all your fault, and Minnie's for bring- 
ing me over! [Waiter enters with luncheon ready laid; 
puts it on table, pulls the table out from window.] 
How could you suppose that I should go over to a 
wretched country like Argentina, where there aren't 
any shops — after all the really good offers I've refused ! 



150 HER TONGUE 

You might have had more consideration for rae ! And 
without a mouthful of breakfast! 

Fred. Well, here's some lunch! 

Patty. And the Barringers sent me such a pressing 
invitation to their croquet party! [Looks at her 
watch.] I shall just have time to get back to Southsea. 
[Puts on her hat.] 

Minnie. You'd much better stay and have some 
lunch. 

Patty. No, I can get some sandwiches somewhere. I 
must go. They'll expect me. I mustn't disappoint 
them! [To Waiter.] When does the next train start 
for Southsea? Come and get me a cab and a Brad- 
shaw. At once! Please! Good-by, Minnie! Good- 
by, Fred! Your friend, Mr. Scobell, must be mad! 
[To Waiter.] Please — a cab and some sandwiches 
and my waterproof and umbrella! And a Bradshaw! 
Where are my gloves? [Exit at back.] Is there any- 
body then who can get me a cab and some biscuits? — 
I never was so insulted — and a Bradshaw — do you 
hear ? — a cab and some biscuits or sandwiches ! — or any- 
thing to eat ! and my gloves ! 

[Exit down passage.] 

[Fred shrugs his shoulders, points to the 
lunch. Minnie and Fred sit down to the 
table which Waiter has pulled out into 
the room. Patty's voice is heard dying 
away along the passage. 

curtain. 



GRACE MARY, 

A Tragedy in the Cornish Dialect 

in ONE ACT 

The dramatic form, the local setting and dialect, and 
the realistic prose treatment employed in this little 
play, will remove it from any chance or pretence 
of comparison with the great imaginative ballad, 
"Michael Scott's Wooing," which Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti left unwritten. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

Nick Pentargan 

Isaac Roseveare 

Luke Jago 

Barzillai Teague 

Peter Hoblyn 

Joshua Webber 

Grace Mary Roseveare 

Elizabeth Teague 

Miners, Peasants, Fisher-People 

Scene: The Cliff Edge of the North Cornish Coast 
Between "All Travellers' Inn" and Isaac Rose- 
veare's Cottage. 

Time: A summer night early in the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury. 



GRACE MARY 

Scene: The exterior of "All Travellers' Inn" on the 
North Cornish coast. Summer night. Misty moon- 
light. The inn is on the right with a covered shel- 
ter outside, in which are placed rough tables, with 
forms on each side. On the tables are tankards 
and mugs. The inn window looks out on the shel- 
ter and is open. A bright light from the inn il- 
lumines the tables and the persons seated there. 
The door of the inn is down stage left, and also 
opens into the shelter. Over the shelter is a 
weather-beaten signboard with "All Travellers' Inn, 
by Barzillai Teague" painted on it. On the left 
of the stage is Isaac Roseveare's cottage, set di- 
agonally; its windows look upon stage; the win- 
dow of Grace Mary's room, on the top floor, is 
shut, and the curtains drawn apart. The window 
is lighted. The door of the cottage is approached 
by a short flight of stone steps at the corner of the 
house; the door being round the corner is not 
seen. At back of stage is the cliff line, and at 
a great distance below is the sea, the horizon 
line being scarcely discernible. Growing up from 
the cliff is a solitary tree with its branches blown 
landwards, its trunk rooted in the cliff beneath the 
edge. Discover Elizabeth Teague clearing up 
tankards, mugs, etc., from tables. Barzillai 

153 



15* GRACE MARY 

Teague, a little lame, bloated, jovial innkeeper, 
hobbles on right. 

Eliz. Barzillai, you've been drenking again. 
Barz. Elizabeth, answer me this, ain't ut better to 
be drunk nor thirsty? 

Eliz. Ef yu must git drunk, why caan't 'ee git drunk 
upon your awn liquor an' your awn premises? 

Barz. Elizabeth, my liquor is gashly, an yu'me on my 
premises. An the man that gits drunk in the company 
of hez wife, ez no better than a baistly fule. Naw, my 
dear sawl, when I do git drunk I've got better taste 
nor to get drunk with you, Elizabeth. I du chuse my 
company. 

Eliz. [Regarding him.] An whose company ev 'ee 
bin drenkin' in to-day? 

Barz. Braave company, sure enough, Elizabeth. 
Eliz. Who's then? 

Barz. I've been drenkin' with — Shaan't tell 'ee, Eliz- 
abeth. 

[Grace Mary opens her window in the cot- 
tage, candle in hand, looks out. She is a 
very pale, delicate girl, about twenty, with 
a wasted, unearthly look in her face. 
Barzillai points her out to Elizabeth. 
Grace Mary. [Peering out into the darkness for a 
few moments, calls gently.] Nick! Are 'ee theere, my 
awn dear swateheart? 

[Waits a moment, listens, and then withdraws 
from window, draws the curtains together, 
leaves the window open. A few seconds 
after, the light Msappears from the cur- 
tains. 



GRACE MARY 155 

Eliz. Aw, poor sawl, her du graw moar an' moar 
like a sperrit every day. 

Barz. Hur did look for oal the world as ef hur had 
just corned up from the dead, didn't hur? 

Eliz. Hur ev niver held up hur head since Nick 
Pentargan went away. 

Barz. Well, hur can hauld it up now, for Nick 
Pentargan ev cum hum agen. 

Eliz. What? 

Barz. I've been with un oal the afternune. 

Eliz. And that's the reason as yu'me in this baistly 
staate. 

Barz. Hauld thy tongue, Elizabeth. Tez only fules 
that don't know the valee an' happiness of gitting 
drunk that fly out against us — philosophers. 

[Grace Mary enters from cottage, as if rest- 
lessly, goes up right, looks off, crosses to 
left, looks off, comes up to them dis- 
quieted. 

Barz. I hope you'me better to-night, Grace Mary. 

Grace Mary. Is there any tidings down along? 

Barz. Naw. Naw tidings down along. 

Grace Mary. Are 'ee sure? 

Barz. Tidings consarning of who, Grace Mary? 

Grace Mary. Consarning of somewan that left here- 
abouts six months agone. 

Barz. [Pause.] Naw. [Pause.] What makes 'ee 
ax? 

Grace Mary. Because oal day long, I've had a 
sooart of a drawing pain here — [with her hand upon 
her heart] — as if he wur a drawing me toward un. 

Barz. How so? 

Grace Mary. Like as if I wur aslape, and heerd un 



156 GRACE MARY 

a calling out to me for to come and help un — and I 
couldn't neither answer un, nor go to un, 'cause theere 
was like mountains atop of me. 

Barz. Aw! 'Tis straange, sure enough! But don't 
'ee think anything more about un, theer's a dear 
maiden, or you'll never be braave and strong agen. 

Grace Mary. I shall never git strong again till I 
du know for sure that oal's well weth him. [Goes to 
cottage, comes back very entreatingly.] Would 'ee be 
so gude as to go down along to the village, and ax if 
theere's any tidings of un. I knaw 'tis fulish of me, 
but ye doan't knaw the ache as I've got about heere. 

[Putting her hand on her heart. 

Eliz. Tell her, Barzillai. 

[Exit Elizabeth into inn. Grace Mart looks 
at Barzillai; he looks down. 

Grace Mary. [Suddenly.] He's heere! I knawed 
it! You've seed un? Wheere? 

Barz. Down to Camelford. 

Grace Mary. [Frantic with joy.] How doeo he 
look? Did he ax after me? What did ye tell un about 
me? Is he coming here? He'd niver laive thaise 
paarts without coming to see me? 

Barz. Bide a bit quiet now, there's a dear maiden, 
or I waun't tell 'ee nort. 

Grace Mary. Tell me oal. Is he well? [Very softly 
and searchingly.] Ev he departed from hez evil 
coorses ? 

Barz. Well [Looks uncomfortable. 

Grace Mary. Daun't 'ee desave me now ! 

Barz. He wor oaless a bit wild, and he oaless will 
be. Tez the natur of un. 

Grace Mary. He wur drenking? / 



GRACE MARY 157 

Barz. I hope theer's no gurt harm in a drap, wheere 
the liquor's gude. 

Grace Mary. Wheere did you laive un ? 

Barz. He wur coming tooards the village. 

Grace Mart. To see me? 

Barz. Not azackly. 

Grace Mary. What vor then? 

Barz. He wur gwine to seek Luke Jago. 

Grace Mary. What vor? I've niwer gived un cause 
for anger agen Luke. 

Barz. Well, 'tis knawn down along that Luke did 
persuade your vaather to part Nick and you, cos Luke 
did want 'ee for hezzelf. 

Grace Mary. Iss — an ivver since Nick went away 
Luke ev been spaiking evil about un to vaather. I 
udn't wed Luke Jago, no, not if theere weren't another 
chap in the world. An' Nick du knaw ut; he du knaw 
that my haart ud break avore it ud ev a thought as 
worn't for him. 

Barz. Well, theere's bad blood tween un and Luke; 
iss sure, vor Nick du knaw 'tis Luke as parted 'ee — 
that's oal I can tell 'ee. [Going into inn. 

Grace Mary. I caan't abide heere and knaw he's so 
nigh me without spaking to un. I mus' come to 'ee, 
Nick. 

[Going off, above cottage, left, meets Isaac 
Roseveare, who enters. 

Isaac. [A stem old Cornish Methodist.] Wheere be 
gwine, Grace Mary? [Turns to Barzillai.] You've 
tould her that devil's cheeld is cummed home agen? 

Barz. Naw, Isaac — 'twur her awn haart as tould 
her. Thee's best laive hur to go to un. 

[Exit into inn. 



158 GRACE MARY 

Isaac. You wor gwine to seek Nick Pentargan ? 

Grace Mart. Iss, vaather. 

Isaac. You did promise to give un up for ivver. 

Grace Mary. I didn't promise I udn't see un an' 
spake to un. 

Isaac. Grace, thy haart is longing vor un still. 

Grace Mary. I caan't help ut, vaather. 

Isaac. Would 'ee wed a drunkard, a swearer, a 
loose-liver, a castaway? 

Grace Mary. Daun't 'ee caal un hard naames. Tent 
ez fault. Sims us ef a wor horn to had-luck. Do 'ee 
caal to mind what his hum were when he wur a cheeld ; 
hez awn mawther ded ev no pity on un, an' wished 
evil on un. An' ez vaather wur an evil man 

Isaac. Iss, an' hez grandvaather. The Pentargans 
wer oaless evil-doers. An' why does thy haart cling 
to un continually? 

Grace Mary. I caen't tell 'ee why. The moar wicked 
an' miserable Nick ez, the moar he du seem to caal vor 
my pity an' luv. I du veel vor un like es ef I wer ez 
mawther, an' he wer helpless an' stretching out ez arms 
to me — I du veel I must go to un. 

Isaac. What?! 

Grace Mary. You du knaw tez not contrariness with 
me. I ev allays obeyed 'ee, and I allays will till the 
end of ut. 

Isaac. God bless 'ee, my dearie. I knaw tez thy 
haart, an' not thy will that loves that devil's cheeld. 

Grace Mary. Iss, tez my haart, and maybe my will 
too. 

Isaac. Let un aloan. Let un answer vor hez sins 
wheere he's accountable, and kape out of our path. 

Grace Mary. Aw, vaather, the power of love is 



GRACE MARY 159 

wonderful. There's luv' enow in my haart to burn up 
oal the wickedness in Nick Pentargan, ef a wur twenty 
times the devil's cheeld ! 

Isaac. What?! 

Grace Mart. Aw, doan't 'ee be angry with me. 

Isaac. Naw, my dear, I won't be angry with 'ee. 

Grace Mary. I du feel sartin sure, vaather, that if 
you would lev us wed, I could saave un, vaather — tez 
hez oanly chaance. Daun't 'ee deny me. Tez my sawl 
as shall answer for ez. 

Isaac. Then thy sawl will be lost. Tez lies that a 
woman can saave a man. A man must save hezzelf, 
if a's saved at oal. An' let Nick Pentargan save 
hezzelf. 

Grace Mary. But he caen't; he'll be losted. 

Isaac. So be it then, if so be as my Grace Mary 
en't losted with un. 

Grace Mary. Aw, daun't 'ee part us, vaather! 

Isaac. Harkee, my dear, you'm oal I've got in the 
woorld. I luv' ee more than oal the woorld. I would 
raather see thee a laying dead in thee bed upsteers 
theere [pointing to her window] than wed to Nick 
Pentargan. Now plaise yourself, my dearie, an' wed 
un if you will ! 

Grace Mary. You du knaw, vaather, as I've oallus 
obeyed 'ee, and I shall obey 'ee now. 

Isaac. [Kisses her.] I thank God for giving me an 
obedient cheeld. Tez gitting late. Come indoors and 
play thy music to me, an' we'll forget un. 

[Leading her to the door. 

Grace Mary. But, vaather, ef Nick should come 
to-night, you wan't forbid me to spake to un? 

Isaac. 'Twould do nort but pain thee, my dear. Be 



160 GRACE MARY 

my braave maiden, and promise me ef Nick comes thee 
waun't spake to un, or make a sign to un. 

Grace Mart. Vaather, I caen't. If Nick do come, 
the very haart will laip out of my body to meet un. 

Isaac. Ef thy eye offend thee, pluck it out. Ef thy 
right hand offend thee, cut it off. Tez but wan stroke. 
Tez thy sawl, thy aun dear sawl as I plaid for. 

Grace Mart. But Nick's sawl — I do care mooare 
for hez dear sawl nor vor my awn. 

Isaac. Theest made an idol of un. He stands 'tween 
thy God and thee. 

Grace Mart. Naw, naw, vaather. 

Isaac. Iss, iss. Do as I tell 'ee. Do as I command 
thee. Naw, naw, I daun't command thee, I intreat thee. 
For love of thy dear mawther as ev gone avore, for 
haupe of seeing her agen wheere theere's no partin's, 
bring thy stubborn haart to its knees — make it obey 
thee. Say the words after me: "I du promise thee, 
vaather, ef Nick Pentargan du come to-night" 

Grace Mart. "I du promise 'ee, vaather, if Nick 
Pentargan du come to-night" 

Isaac. "I will not spaik to un wan word" 



Grace Mart. "I will not spaik to un wan word" 

Isaac. "Or make any sign whatsomever" 

Grace Mart. "Or make any sign whatsomever" 

Isaac. "Or look at un, or think on un." 

Grace Mart. Not think on un? Aw, vaather, how 

can I help ut? 

Isaac. Tear un out from thee haart! Do ut, my 

dear, and be at peace. Promise after me. "I will not 

look at un, or think one thought of un, of my aun free 

will." 

Grace Mart. [With great effort.] "I will not look 



GRACE MARY 161 

at him, or think one thought of him — of my aun free 
will." I've said it, vaather. 

Isaac. An' thou'U do ut? 

Grace Mart. So vur as God gives me graace. 

Isaac. An' He will. Thee'll be in great peace soon, 
my dear. 

Grace Mary. Iss, but 'twill be like the peace of 
them as are dead. The peace of well-doing en't so calm 
and quieting as the peace of the churchyard, ez ut, 
vaather ? 

[Noise of riotous laughing and shouting heard 
off left. 

Isaac. [Looks off.] Go indoors, my dear 

Grace Mary. Sims I heerd hes voice 

[Trying to look off right. 

Isaac. [Stopping her, sternly.] Thy promise! Go 
indoors, an' set thyself to thy music. 'Twill drown ez 
voice, an' 'twill drown the thought of un out of thy 
mind. [Burst of uproarious laughter.] Iss, play thy 
music — and — [very solemnly.] Remember thy promise. 
Thee waun't break ut? [With great earnestness. 

Grace Mary. [Same tone of great earnestness.] No. 
I shall kape ut, vaather. 

[Another riotous burst of laughter off left. 
She shows pain. She goes into cottage. 
[Enter Luke Jago, left.] 

Luke. He's coming with seven worser sperrits nor 
hezzelf, an' a du swear by oal that's holy as he'll make 
thee aupen thy doors to un, an' laive un to spaik to ez 
awn dear maid. 

Isaac. Ez maid ? A du call her ez maid ? 

Luke. Iss, and a du swear as nort shall part them. 
Isaac, you waun't go back on your word to me? I du 



162 GRACE MARY 

love her sore. Isaac, you waun't laive her wed Nick 
Pentargan ? 

Isaac. Naw, she shall niwer wed Nick Pentargan — 
that I du vow. 

Luke. An' maybe, when time has gone by — her haart 
ull turn from un, and she'll wed me. 

Isaac. That shall be as God plaises. 
[Enter left Nick Pentargan, a young fellow about 
thirty, half-drunk, wildly excited, at the head of a 
rabble, among whom are Peter Hoblyn, a sailor, 
and Joshua Webber. Isaac and Nick stand con- 
fronting each other. Pause.] 
Nick. [Civilly.] Gude evenin', Isaac. 

[Isaac looks at him sternly and then goes to- 
wards steps. Nick intercepts him, stands 
at the bottom of steps. 
Nick. [Doffing his cap, half -respect fully, half-mock- 
ingly, with great politeness.] Gude evenin', Isaac Rose- 
veare. [Isaac makes a movement to pass him. 

Nick. [Mounts one or two steps, in a fierce tone.] 
Naw, Isaac. You daun't go in to your house till you've 
passed the time o' day weth me. [Pause.] Come now, 
Isaac, find your gude manners, and wish me "Gude 
evenin'." [Pause. 

Isaac. [Calls to the door.] Grace Mary. Theere 
stans a man at my door — you du knaw who tez. Kape 
thy promise, my dear. Lock my door in ez face. 

[Pause. The lock turns. Nick shows pain 

and despair for some moments, then pulls 

himself together with a defiant air. 

Nick. [Arms akimbo, planted firmly on steps.] Oal 

the saame, Isaac, thou shalt pass the time o' day with 

me avore I let thee in, aye, that thou shalt, ef I kape 



GRACE MARY 163 

thee waiting heere tell 'tis time for us boath to be 
judged, an' thou du go up along, while I — aw, my 
sonnies — I du wonder wheere the devil I shall go. 

[Grace Mary's voice heard singing the eve- 
ning hymn, accompanied by an accordion. 
Nick shows that he is touched. After a 
line of the hymn the voice falters, and 
breaks down, music stops. 
Isaac. [Speaking at the door.] Ev 'ee brokken 
down, my dear? Try again, an' God give thee courage. 
Nick. Isaac, vor hur saake — spaik a paisible word 
to me. 

Isaac. I daun't knaw 'ee, Nick Pentargan. 
Nick. Sonnies, do 'ee go inside, an' laive me to ev 
a word or two weth Isaac aloane. Oal of 'ee. 

[The men go into the inn, except Luke, who 
stands there. 
Nick. [To Luke.] Dost 'ee hear, Luke or Judas, 
or whatsomever thy naame ez. Thee'st done me harm 
enow. Tak thyself away — about thy business. 

[Luke sneaks into the inn after the others. 
Nick and Isaac are left alone. 
Nick. Isaac, thee wouldn't see me ruined body an' 
sawl. 

Isaac. [Sternly.] Daun't I tell 'ee, I daun't knaw 
'ee. 

Nick. Nay, but thou shalt knaw me. 

Isaac. Who art thee, then? 

Nick. I'm the devil's cheeld that luv's thy daughter, 

an' if thee daun't laive me see her, and 

[Raises his arm as if to strike Isaac. 
Isaac. Would 'ee strike me? 
Nick. Naw. But I du main to come to her. 



164* GRACE MARY 

Isaac. Hur ev vowed to her God hur'll ev nort to 
do weth 'ee. 

Nick. Tez 'er lips ev vowed. Hur haart would 
nivver du ut. 

Isaac. She'll kape her word. 

Nick. Naw, thee'll set her free from ut. Hearkee, 
Isaac. My life, my immortal sawl, are bound up weth 
hurs. Ax hur if ten't so; ax if there en't a bond be- 
tween hur an* me that God ezzelf ev set ez sale on, an' 
can nivver be broke asunder. 

Isaac. Tez broke. An' thou thyself ev broke ut. 

Nick. How? 

Isaac. By thy awn evil life. I ded promise the 
maid to 'ee ef thee would laive thy evil ways, and 
thee didst promise to du ut. How did thee kape thy 
word? 

Nick. Ten't no fault of mine, Isaac. Thee dost 
knaw the history of me, an' oal of us. 

Isaac. Iss, as all thy vore-vaathers ev been, so wilt 
thou be to the end. 

Nick. Naw, Isaac. Theere's my salvation inside 
thy doors. Theere's evil in me — I knaw ut well. 
When I'm away from hur, sims to me, I'm moast oal 
evil. But when I du come anigh to hur, hur du quicken 
the gudeness in me into a flame, an' I'm moast oal 
gude. Isaac, I've a come back to hev a new life weth 
hur vor my awn dear wife. Daun't 'ee part us. I'll 
change from thez hour. 

Isaac. I've a read somewheere about the leopard 
changing ez spots, an' the Ethiopian changing ez skin, 
but I daun't believe as 'twer ivver proved. Hearken, 
Nick, if thee du waunt to wed Grace Mary, thee tek 
thyself awaay to Africa, an' go an' bring me back a 



GRACE MARY 165 

leopard with hez skin changed to a lamb's, or an 
Ethiopian weth ez flesh changed to be white like wan 
ov our English babes, — bring either wan or other ov 
thaise two animals, and I'll believe then that ye can 
do good ez are accustomed to do evil; I'll believe that 
a devil's cheeld like you can be changed into an angel 
of light, ef you wor to wed my Grace Mary. An' I'll 
giv' her to 'ee. But I'll niwer give her to 'ee till 
then, so help me God. 

[Turns to go. Nick shows great despair. 
Accordion plays again. Nick and Isaac 
listen, much affected. 

Nick. [In low tone, great despair.] Then tez oal 
over tween hur an' me, Isaac ? 

Isaac. Iss sure. Make theeself sure of that. 

[Going up steps. 

Nick. Isaac [Approaching him. 

Isaac. Say on. 

Nick. [Very quiet and appealingly.] When I du 
laive this plaace to-night, I du laive like Cain, a 
wanderer an' a vagabond on the vaace of the earth. 
I shall niwer see hur again, or spaik to hur, or hear 
hur voice — but I shall live an' wander on, an' on, an' 
on for years an' years, with nort to live an' wander 
for. An' my haart is feerly dead within me. I du 
wish 'twould plaise Heaven to mak' an end of me heer 
an' now 

Isaac. Aw, how can thee speak sa wickedly? 

Nick. Cause tez how I du feel. Theere's no taste 
ef life left in me withut hur. Sims to me as I caan't 
vaace it now. But if hur tells me hurself that hur ev 
cast me off, then I du promise 'ee, Isaac, I'll give thee 
no vurther trouble, an' I'll niwer see thee nor hur 



166 GRACE MARY 

agen, but I'll drag on till I drop into my grave. But 
let me hear from liur awn dear lips as hur ev giv' 
me up. 

Isaac. Naw. 'Twould only pain hur. Vor hur 
saake tek thyself off when I du bid thee. 
Nick. Naw. Let her send me away, an' I'll go. 
Isaac. Naw, thee shaan't see hur. 
Nick. Nay, but I will. 

Isaac. [Goes up, stands at top of steps, knocks at 

door.] Grace Mary. Thee du knaw who is outside. Ef 

thee will kape thy vow an' save thy sawl, unlock thez 

door, an' the very next moment go upstairs to thy awn 

room, an' lock thyself in so that no wan can come 

anigh thee. But ef thou wult brake thy word, an' be 

losted for iwer, bide downstairs an' spaik to him 

agenst thy vow. Chuse between thez man an' thy God. 

[Pause. The lock is heard to turn. Isaac 

holds the door-handle a few seconds. 

Nick runs eagerly up the steps. A light 

appears in Grace Mart's room above. 

Isaac opens the door, looks eagerly in, 

and then points triumphantly inside to 

Nick. Nick shows great despair. Exit 

Isaac into cottage, shuts door; lock is 

heard to turn again. Nick comes down 

the steps in great despair, walks up and 

down for a moment or two. 

Nick. [Shouts into inn.] Hi, my sonnies! Hi, 

Barzillai — wheere be 'ee oal of ye? Hi! Hi! Hi! 

[Enter from inn the drinkers, Joshua, Peter, and 

Barzillai.] 

Barz. What ez ut, Nick? 

Nick. I du want to ev just wan pleasant evenin' 



GRACE MARY 167 

with oal of ye avore I du laive ye. What'll 'ee take, 
Peter? 

Peter. Saame as avore, Barzillai. 

Nick. Josh? 

Joshua. I sez ditto. 

Nick. An' you, David? 

David. I caan't du better I spoase nor kape to 
Plymouth gin. 

Nick. Not ef 'ee waant to send thee head burning 
maazed and mad like mine. Barzillai, tek the orders 
vrom oal. 

[Barzillai takes orders and then goes into 
inn. 
[Luke Jago enters from inn.] 

Nick. Aw, yu'me theere, Luke Jago? 

Luke. Iss. 

Nick. Twer yu as set hur vaather again me. 

Luke. I did think I wei^ doing Graace Maary a 
brave gude turn to kape her from wedding thee, Nick. 

Nick. Well, ye've done ut. Sit ye down. [Points 
to chair.] What'll ye take to drink? 

Luke. I waun't drink weth ye. 

Nick. Yu shall drink two helths weth me to-night 
avore we du part. Set down, or I'll force thee, an' 
pour the liquor down thy droaat an' stop the lies from 
coming up ut. [Very sternly and threateningly.] Set 
down when I tell 'ee! [Luke sits. 

[Barzillai and Elizabeth enter from inn with liquor, 
which guests take. Elizabeth fills glasses up with 
water.] 

Nick. [To Luke.] What will 'ee take? 

Luke. I daun't caare — what thee plaizes. 

Nick. Barzillai, do 'ee bring Luke Jago and me a 



168 GRACE MARY 

double portion o' Plymouth gin — a double portion vor 
Luke, 'cause tez ez health we'me gwine to drenk. An' 
a double portion vor me, 'cause the more liquor I du 
drenk, the sooner I shall forget the sweet angel that 
is losted to me vor ivver. 

[Glancing up at Grace Mary's window, shows 
remorse; a gesture of throwing it off. 
Exit Barzillai. 

Nick. Wait a bit, sonnies, daun't 'ee drenk till I get 
my liquor an' gie 'ee the toast. Tez the helth of oal 
snakes, an' sly, underhand, mischief -making varmin as 
I du want 'ee oal to drenk. [Luke rises angrily. 

Nick. Aw, thee dost knaw as I main thee. Sit 
down. Sit down, I tell 'ee. [Luke sits, slowly. 

[Enter Barzillai with two glasses nearly filled with 
spirits, and a decanter of water.] 

Nick. [Takes his up.] A double portion! Tez 
gude. 

Barz. Thee'st better put some water long weth ut, 
Nick. Tez a powerful sperrut. 

Nick. Daun't I tell 'ee I want to drown my thoughts 
so deep — [glancing in agony at window] — so deep that 
they'll nivver rise up agen. Now, my sonnies, heere's to 
oal sichy sly snakes as Luke Jago. [To Luke, threat- 
eningly.] Drenk when I tell 'ee. 

[Luke drinks. Nick tosses his off at one 
gulp. 

Nick. That's braave. Drenk it oal up. Oal of ye. 
I du start awaay frum heereabouts to-morrow morn — 
[speaking the words at the open window] — an' none 
of ye wan't nivver see me again [calling up at window.] 
An' I du want ye oal to wish me luck on my journey. 

Barz. Whichey way be gwine, Nick? 



GRACE MARY 169 

Nick. I'm gwine strait hum to my vaather Nick. So 
cumraades oal, put a braave vaace on ut, an' giv' me a 
comfortable start on my travels. [Pointing down.] — 
Luke Jago, I towld 'ee ye should drenk twice weth me 
avore we parted. I rackon yu'll be plaised to drenk 
to my sawl's destruction and ruin, waun't 'ee? 

Luke. [Venomously.] Iss, with oal my haart. 

[A long moan from Grace Mart's window. 

Nick. [Suddenly runs to window with a cry of com- 
punction.] Naw, naw, my dear angel, I daun't main 
ut ! Spaik wan word to me, my awn swaithaart ! 

[Pause. 

Luke. Caal a little louder ! [Pause.] Mayhap bur's 
deaf or aslaip. 

Nick. Grace Mary, my haart's brokken! I'm feer 
dying for a sight ov 'ee. Ef you've promised you 
waun't spaik, do 'ee put yer hand in token yu forgev 
me. Dost 'ee beer? 

Luke. Laive off thy clacketing, an' tek theeself away, 
thee dog in the manger. 

Nick. Grace Mary, spaik to me ! Awnly wan word I 
du beg of 'ee, my swait, to shut thez eer chap's mouth. 

Luke. Tek a drop o' liquor to clear thy droat, an' 
then caal out agen! 

Nick. Spaik, my dear — I du knaw yez awnly on 
the other side of the curtains — an' ye can heer iwery 
word I'm spaiking. Won't 'ee jest show yezzel vor 
but one momint. 

Luke. [Laughs.] Hur ev thrawn 'ee over, like the 
gude-fur-nort that thee art. Hui^s done with 'ee, an* 
hur'll niwer cum to thee, no, not ef thee dost stan' 
theere for siven yeer! 

Nick. Hur'll niwer cum to me? 



170 GRACE MARY 

Luke. Naw! not ef thee du split thy droat weth 
caaling an' beseeching hur — I say hur waun't come to 
thee. 

Nick. By God, hur shall come to me! Barzillai, 
bring Luke Jago and me a treble portion o' the hottest 
fire and brimstone stuff as ye've got in thee house, for 
to drenk to my sawl's ruin an' damnation. Dost 'ee 
'ear? [Very commandingly.] 

[Exit Baezillai into inn. 
Nick. Grace Mary — harken — I've a sworn that thou 
shalt cum out to me, an' I'll kape my word ef I lose 
my sawl vor it. [Barzillai reenters with liquor. 

Nick. [Calling up to window.] I giv' thee wan more 
chance, Grace Mary. If thee waun't come, I'll drenk 
to my sawl's everlasting ruin. 

Nick [To Barzillai.] Bring the liquor here. 

[The window curtains are seen to be clutched 

from within. 

Nick. Aw ! Thee dost hear me ! Come an' saave me, 

my love! I command thee. Come, or I'll drenk! 

[Takes one glass from Barzillai. To Luke.] Take thy 

glass. Drenk to my sawl's everlasting ruin. Will 'eeconie? 

[Lifting glass to lips. 
[The grasp on the window curtains is relaxed. 
A long, terrible shriek from within, and 
the sound of a body falling. Nick puts 
down glass, horror-stricken. The next 
moment the wraith of Grace Mary ap- 
pears outside the door on the top of the 
steps. 
Nick. Look! Look! [Points at her. 

Luke. Look where? There's nort! 



GRACE MARY 171 

Nick. Look! Look! I tould 'ee hur'd come! 

[Stands pointing. 

Luke. Theere's nort theere, ez theere? 

Nick. Iss! Iss! Daun't 'ee see hur? Josh! Peter! 

Josh. Naw, naw. 

Peter. Naw, Nick, I can see nort. 

Barz. Nick, do 'ee come indoors, theere's a good lad, 
an' daun't 'ee play weth thy sawl's ruin. Come in oal 
of ye — it feer makes my blood run cold. Come in. 

[Some of the men withdraw into inn, still 
looking at Nick, who stands pointing at 
Grace Mary. 

Luke. Thee'rt mazed weth drenk ! I tell thee there's 
nort theere. Come inside, sonnies! Come in an' lave 
the f ule to ez awn f uling ! 

Nick. [Still points.] Look! Look! 

[Exeunt all into inn except Nick. 

Nick. [Going a step toward her.] Ez ut thee, Grace 
Mary? [Rubbing his eyes, trying to collect himself.] 
Spaik to me! 

Grace. I've a-come ut thy bidding, Nick ! Thy words 
did draw the very haart out o' my body with luv to 
thee. 

Nick. Say ut again! I did knaw 'tworn't thy awn 
dear self that shut the door on me. 

Grace. Thee knawest I udn't. But thy wickedness 
an' evil ways ev a brokken my haart, Nick. 

Nick. I'll change vrom thes hour. I'll laive all my 
wickedness an' maik myself fit vor thee, my awn dear 
angel. 

Grace. Tez vor that I've come to thee, to maik thee 
a good true man from thez time f oath. Think, my awn 



172 GRACE MARY 

dear love, as I'm a watching ovver thee iwery momint 
o' thy life from this time. Theere's nivver a deed, nor 
a wish, nor a thought o' thy haart but I shall knaw it. 
Will 'ee promise me to strive an' kape thyself vrom 
evil, Nick? Tez thy awnly chance of meeting me agen. 

Nick. Iss! Iss! But I do see thee naw! Come 
nearer to me. Let me hauld thee in my arms 

Grace. [Fading away over the sea.] Thee'lt nivver 
hauld me in thy arms, niwer see me or spaik to me 
agen on this earth. 

Nick. Grace Mary! Grace Mary! Daun't 'ee laive 
me, dear. Daun't 'ee laive me ! 

Grace. [Fading.] I won't laive 'ee! [Fading. Nick 
goes after her towards edge of cliff.] I'll watch auver 
'ee to the end. I did shut the door upon thee to-night, 
Nick. But I'll pray vor the door to be kipt aupen 
wheere I be gwine. 

Nick. [With outstretched arms, following her to the 
cliff's edge.] Cum back to me, my dear! My haart 
waun't give thee up ! Thee'rt tied to me in life and 
death! Cum back to me! [Grace Mary fades. 

Grace Mary's voice. The door shall be kipt aupen 
vor 'ee. Good-bye. 

[Nick turns round, bewildered, goes up the 
cottage steps, knocks loudly, comes down 
steps, and looks up at window. 

[Enter Isaac from cottage. 

Nick. Graace Mary — dost 'ee knaw? 

Isaac. Iss, I heerd a scream, an' I went upstairs, 
and theere hur wor — laid on the floor. Hur haart ev 
brokken vor thee. Hur's dead! What can us do? 

Nick. God giv' me graace, I du main to follow hur, 
Isaac. — [Speaking toward the space where she has 



GRACE MARY 173 

faded.] — I'll follow 'ee, my dear. Kape the door aupen 
vor me. — Isaac, thee waun't shut the door on me now? 
Isaac. Come in. We'll go to hur together. 

[Holds out his hand. Nick takes it. They go 
into the cottage together. 

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